Hey, this is all okay. Let’s just be philosophical about it.
You can’t tell when I’m lying. You have no idea whether what I have to say is truth or fiction.
I feel calm. Or am I numb…? It’s unwanted, all this nothing. Feelings are good, I like letting myself lose control in mine – even if I do end up with battle scars. Thank you for letting me do that with you. It was fun. I wish I’d explained more clearly the difference between the highs and the lows… you only ever made me feel good; the misery was just my brain venting some of the heartache it deals with all of the time, every day, since long before we crossed paths.
It’s gone now. I’ve written myself out of the story.
You’re so warm, yet hot, yet cold. You played your cards so close to your chest while I showed you my hand in every round because I really wanted you to win this game. I thought we could work together. Literally. I thought I could do great things with your encouragement and I would have let you take all the credit for creating me.
Truth is always more fucked up than fiction. I can’t even explain what happened. I just wanted to feel fiery emotions again, to be inspired by someone like you. I’m sorry it was too intense. It wasn’t ever going to leave the confines of my mind in anything other than the written word, but words can be pretty fucking electric.
Switch everything off at the mains. There’s a powercut in my heart.
I’m sorry I fell in love with you.
There. Now you have a good reason to not speak to me, and I no longer have to sit around wondering what I’ve done wrong.