Break-up Blues

In the spring, your armpit scent changes. It becomes more musky.

It was Sunday afternoon. The light in her apartment was beautiful - afternoon getting in through the shades, filling the chairs, carpets and curtains with color. She instagrammed her cup of lemon balm tea and wrote: Life sucks and then you die.

It was me, actually, who wrote that, and it was me sitting in that apartment.

I was set to leave soon, in less than two weeks, I would start again, I would attempt once again to give myself a purpose in this fucking life.

What she's been wondering lately is why has evolution blessed us with an ability to think and doubt and not like ourselves?

I'm sitting here, still in love with the same sociopath, still unaccomplished.
I feel in my bones a desire to jump out through the window.

And I can't even write fiction and become famous because I'm too fucking obsessed with myself and the way I feel.

I need you.

I left you and that has been the best decision I could have made, but these past three months have been the most boring time of my life. I miss you and you are quite literally the only thing/person that makes me feel alive.

I stopped smoking weed because it makes me feel great when I shouldn't feel great because there is nothing to feel great about.

It's so lame, really.
It's so lame to be in love with you.

Life sucks and then you die.
So fucking basic.