His POV
I asked the nurse to hand me a small square, piece of paper. It was sitting on a plastic gray char. Complimentary of the hospital. I hadn't expected her to reach out to me. The text messages. I breathed them. I didn't expect them to last this long. Surely she would've just moved on from someone like me.
It was a letter. It'd take me days to figure out, she wasn't texting me to text me. She was texting me to tell me a story.
"I hate having to do this. You know. There's so much more to me than you. We were stupid, falling apart from the start. Maybe it's easier this way. She seems nice. Did you get my drunk text? Ignore it. I don't want you back. It was stupid. Stop calling my best friend. She's over you.
I'm sorry, but what are we again? Nothing. Look. There's nothing left to say. Lose me. That tattoo was retarded. Why? Why my name? What were you trying to prove? Why me?
I'll always love the best parts of you. It's the worst parts that broke me down.
I fucking hate you! It's suddenly my fault? Stop trying to apologize. Did you do it? She got confirmed for an STI last summer. Hope you're happy. Your mom called last night.
Depression is nothing to lie about. You understand? Know you could've told me. I would've listened. Never said I didn't have problems. But you? I found the note. You're not leaving me. I will run away with you. Just live.
Check the chair by your hospital bed, love."
The last paragraph before the ending was blurry to me. I never wrote a note she'd found. I never said I was going to run away. I never lied about my depression. If anything, she'd lied to me. Was this letter addressing someone other than me?
YOU ARE READING
8 Word Poetry
PoetryIt was a breakup. There were text messages, heart break, and arguments. You fall in love and never fall out. Looking for an escape where there isn't one. You're supposed to be scared. It's scary. So are suicide attempts.
