Hysterical letters to my sanity

practice doesn't always mean perfection

he took her to the museum and they basked in the sun
like all cliches they laughed at themselves
they sip expresso at 4 in the morning in between cigarettes
he tells her he loves her
he tells her that he can't live without her
she says
"then die"
with her hands twisted around his and her face contorted to look like all the angels in heaven
he wishes he could
she had her lips pressed against the bottle as he hummed a low tune
she told him to "shut the fuck up" and threw the bottle
he cleaned vodka and vomit off the floor all night
just like she cleaned the blood off the bathroom mirror
like how they cleaned the pills from the bottles and write love letters like suicide notes
they said "goodbye" every day
they said "i wish you were dead"
every night
they practiced breaking up like one might practice an art form.
they practiced so hard neither of them knew when it was real
one day she said
"die"
like she meant it
one day he looked at her and said
"let's practice"
she smiled through her tears and broken teeth
"of course"
"i think we should break up"
it was after a long pause that she looked him in the eyes and nodded
"can we still be friends?" she asked jokingly
as if to lighten the mood
he stared slack faced
"no"
she took her hand from his pocket, holding only the little picture he kept of the two of them
"then i'll take this back" she giggled
he didn't laugh
"goodnight" he said
she felt a little lost
this felt like the main event
a show she wasn't prepared for despite the practice
"i'll see you tomorrow!" she shouted and he turned around
He stared at her for maybe hours but no only seconds
then started walking again
TO PRACTICE CAN TAKE AWAY ALL THE PLEASURE
ALL THE PAIN.