I Wrote This

I wrote this because I don’t know how to tell you things. I wrote this because I can still taste you on my lips. I wrote this because I don’t know how drunk you were. I wrote this because I know how drunk I was. I wrote this because I’m hurting. I wrote this because I don’t know what else to do. I wrote this because I miss you. I wrote this because I cry myself to sleep most nights. I wrote this because I remember you. I wrote this because I’ve seen you die a hundred times. I wrote this because I exist. I wrote this because I need you. I wrote this because I don’t know how to make it right anymore. I wrote this because I’m falling to pieces. I wrote this because I want to howl at the moon. I wrote this because my hand is still warm where your fingers curled against mine. I wrote this because when I close my eyes I can still see the apartment. I wrote this because of the couch and the cupboards, the army men in the fridge. I wrote this because I’m dying, inch by inch. I wrote this because I need you. I wrote this because I’ll never send it. I wrote this because you’ll never read it, so I don’t have to worry about not being able to take it back. I wrote this because this is killing me, and if I could, I would crawl into the ground and wrap myself around you. I wrote this because it wouldn’t matter how cold your lips are. I wrote this because there will never be anyone else. I wrote this because I love you.

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