I want to write something sad. I miss being sad, or at least my writing having more depth—like I’m learning something about myself through all the thinking. But my life has been so calm lately that I feel uninspired because I don’t feel much. My weeks are monotonous and boring, and while that’s okay and I don’t mind it, I want to be sad.
I think sometimes we forget that sadness is like a drug, in some way… just like happiness is. When you’ve spent the majority of your life sad, being mundane and steady feels odd. So you crave sadness like a drug.
So this writing is brought to you by “Hell Hole” by CARV, on blast, repeating for the last hour.
I remember when I met you. I was twenty, living in a house off Cherry Street—or what some people called “the hood” in Knoxville. A part of me wishes I never met you that day, because maybe you wouldn’t still be on my mind at twenty-six. I wouldn’t have ever let you walk through my door.
In July this year, we’ll finally hit one year of not speaking, after we parted ways four years ago.
Together for two years and broken up for four, yet we only just made it to almost a year without speaking—and hopefully, for the rest of our lives.
You’ve taken so much from me in the last six years. God, it feels like yesterday when we met, and at the same time, the day we broke up. You feel like an endless soundtrack in the back of my head that I’ve never heard, but somehow know every word to.
You hated me so well and conned me into thinking it was love. I was so naïve. I wanted so badly to have forever with you, and I fed into every delusion you handed me.
I liked to think you knew me, but you just knew exactly how to hurt me—just like my father did. All the stupid mental games I’ve had to play just to feel like a decent human being again… to feel like I’m worth something.
I don’t hate you anymore. I just hate that a small sliver of me still wants to love you some days.
Do you remember when we used to smoke cigarettes on my balcony late at night, talking to the moon? Yeah—well, I’m staring at the chairs now, and I don’t crave cigarettes anymore.
You’ll never read this, but on the off chance that you do—FUCK YOU, truly.