You left me all your money. Your everything. I don’t want them. Don’t want any.
You left me everything. His dirty stain. You’re stained. You left the stain on me. The dirty stain on me. That no soap. No detergent. No sex or fucks can get it out. It just gets a little fainter.


Yet tomorrow you will forget everything. You will be living innocently again in a series of happy stories with no sad endings, and you will not know why.


Does it matter to anyone? Does it matter to you? You’ve never seen what I’ve seen anyway. I’ve not seen what you’ve seen anyway. Nothing’s discovered. No one’s hurt. No hurt. Because you’ve forgotten everything. Until someone reads your diary. Again. And again. And again. And again.


So I run. Run. And I have been running. Running from places that remind me of you. Places that remind me of her. Running from the things that remind me of her. Running from you. Just looking ahead always, and running. Running till I have nowhere to run from myself. My memories.


Because there is love, there is pain. I may be dead, but I’m still hurting.
We stopped, looking out at the sea. We stared at each other. And we were so quiet. We could almost hear each other’s heart beating. The pain each heart beat brought.

The pain. The pain. The pain.

Then she sighed, leaned back, and started fiddling with her iPhone. And I fired up another cigarette.




It’s almost the morning.