For an old best friend.
I count the textured bumps on my ceiling because I have nothing else to do if I can’t talk to you.
I write stories instead of living them out myself because real life no longer intrigues me.
Why does real life no longer intrigue me?
I am depressed.
You, my best friend, decided you can’t watch me tear myself apart like paper;
So instead you remove me on all of your social media accounts under the guise of “your own well-being”.
I learn you are hiding your mental health issues from me and the first thing I know and feel is betrayal.
That’s where it always seems to end.
So, Bestie; your absence has not made my heart grow fonder.
It has only swollen it to the point of bursting.
Maybe if you could go back in time, instead of being my friend, you could punch me in the stomach instead so I know to stay away.
Your goodbye was covered with sentences saying “I love you” and “I care about you so fucking much.”
But you still don’t know how to act like it.
P.S. I still don’t know what to do with the birthday present you are sending me.