I remember when I first broke up with my ex, the first time. He was devastated, and I know what that feels like. When everything hurts so bad, so bad, and the only person who can help is the same person who is hurting you. I wonder if I ever told him that I understand what that’s like, because I really, really do. And if he doesn’t know that I understand, I can understand why he still hates me.
There is a rhythm to my writing that only I can see, but I can tell they do appreciate. It’s like Shakespeare’s iambic pentameter. And I can tell when it’s broken. I can tell every time I stopped to check my breathing, blinked to check my sight (omg, that’s a trip), mispelled a word, or reminded myself to take yet another sip of my already cold coffee.
I can’t wait until all this is over and I can hug my dad again. We both brought plastic sheets so that we could hug each other. We still didn’t.