Underneath The Cherry Blossom Tree

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/someone once told me that love was like religion. It's a guilt based system and no one wins./

I was on one of my late night drives again, my therapist said to let my mind wander and somehow I made my way to your house. I cant tell if that's supposed to be poetic or pathetic, but it feels like home. Home. I always called you my home. Funny enough, I never got an eviction notice. I guess, I thought that feeling in my heart was just joy- I now know that feeling was called anxiety. I've always been drawn to the uncontrollable.
The day I met you, that is what I came to be. I became a mess, you used to call me your mess. I guess, I thought that was supposed to be poetic. Nothing about romanticizing emotional insatiability is poetic. I mean, it wasn't like you were kissing my scars; you were parading my self hatred as if it meant my love for you. And I guess you were right because loving you was the same as hating myself. Loving you was like being set on fire, some might see it as beautiful but it was painful.
There is nothing beautiful about crying on your bathroom floor at two in the morning. There is nothing beautiful about staring at the wall for so long that it looks like art. There is nothing beautiful about not changing the batteries in your fire alarm because you don't care if your house burns down with you in it. There is nothing beautiful about sleeping the day away because facing the outside world feels like too much and you can't bear the thought of seeing his face again.
I used to write for you. For once in my life, I wrote happy poems. But I look back on it, and I feel stupid. I mean, how many times can you write about something or someone, until it all starts to sound the same? I guess the only good thing that came out of this was having something new to write about. I haven't written in months. With you, days felt like years and I was so eager to spend them all with you. Now, it's like the world is moving so fast without me. I don't even know what day it is.
It's the 31st.
Just my luck. Today would've been 6 months together. I laughed.
I laughed and it sounded almost as empty as I feel because this sounds like another poem I would've written in the sixth grade but this isn't middle school and I'm going on twenty-three. I guess, I wasn't lying when I said days felt like years.
I've never been one to believe in love at first sight and it sounds pathetic but the moment you walked in the room, I knew you would destroy me. I knew you would paint my insides yellow but I also knew that the paint was too watery and watery paint is just a mess. Ironic. You know, when you left the first thought that crossed my mind is "who am I supposed to take to Christmas dinner, now?"
My mom loved you. Everyone loved you. I loved you. Using past tense makes it hurt a little less, even if I'm lying to myself. I wanted to believe that you were lying to yourself when you screamed that you didn't love me anymore. How couldn't you love me? I painted my own skin for you. I'm wearing the nice bruises you gave me. I'm wearing those dark circles you bought with my time. I guess I should stop calling them gifts if I'm the one who bought them.
I guess, I should stop calling you mine if you left days ago.
You'd think that one day I'd get in a car crash from thinking all of this while driving. I've always been great at procrastinating. You are too. You know, it takes skill to carry on multiple relationships without your girlfriend finding out. I guess that's why you never asked me to marry you.