All that I wanted was to distract her from all those lame guys.

Instead, accidentally, I set fire to her house. I set fire to her bed, to take her attention off those jerks who never treat her like she’s special. She cried, like she could crumble into ash. 

All that I wanted, was to be the centre of her world.

I wanted to be drugs for her to get high. I wanted to be formless clouds drifting by overheard, to inspire her imagination. I wanted to be the bugs that sucked her blood. I wanted to be the neighbours that were kept up by her gargling. I wanted to be the garbageman who got her used sanitary products stuck to the sole of his shoe. 

She opened up to me, and spilled her guts out on the floor. She showed me where she’d been stabbed and fucked and betrayed, and where she’d been loved. She’d been loved every once in a while, which is still a lot better than what a lot of other people get.

She sends me chat messages while the emergency crews go to work salvaging her bedroom and her memories. She asks me things like “when will something feel better than this?”

And I type her elegant lies in response. 

I’d like you to watch me smoking, but you’d love to see me burn. 

Have to consider all the things that work and that don’t work, that have brought me here. I woke up suspecting it was time to delete my facebook account and stop having friends. 

I want to. I want to go away. I want to stop trying to have things with people. I want to take back the past 4 weeks of my life and do them over again. I want to…

I want to be somebody else.

I want to be fucking high.

I want to stop writing love letters and start writing suicide notes.