running [h.s]

five

You had always hated it when I smoked cigarettes. You said that each cigarette took away a day from your life, and you didn't want me leaving anytime soon. I never understood why you said this, because you smoked them yourself. I guess it doesn't matter anymore, but I still wonder.

Lately they have been the only thing that can make me feel the way you did.

I have constant nostalgia. I can't sleep anymore, Harry. I remember when you left, I was in denial for weeks. I wouldn't believe that you were gone. But the cold reality has hit me, and you're gone. Never coming back.

It makes me so fucking angry, Harry. You left me. You didn't even say goodbye. And here I am, 5 months after more fucked up than I ever was.

I've been smoking more and more. Taking days off of my life, as you liked to say. I really don't care anymore. I've lost you, so I've got nothing to lose.

I used to get sad thinking about you, but now I'm angry. I'm so angry, Harry. There's holes in my walls and bruises on my legs.

You were playing with matches and I have a paper heart. I'm on fire, and soon I'm going to be a pile of ashes. Scattered on the road of my own destruction.

I'm losing it, Harry. Everything's fading out. I spend most of my time exploring the forest because they remind me of your sad green eyes, and I think I deserve the pain.

I don't talk anymore, my voice always comes out shaky and cracks when I do. I guess those nights of screaming for you messed me up. Maybe it's the cigarettes burning the back of my throat.

My knuckles are black and blue from hitting things in my fits of rage. My fingers are constantly shaking and my fingertips are raw from trying to draw that certain look in your eyes that I can never explain.

It's all a mess, Harry. You made hell feel like home for a while. But now it just feels like hell, and it's all your fault.