The Day of Eternal Regrets

The floor is where my love goes to die. I rip my heart from my chest and offer it to the earth, saying, “I do not want this.” And I let the tissue dissolve, in a pretty disturbing semblance to the dissolution of sugar in water. I’d like to call this a recovery, a place where the decaying decadence of me can grow something new.

And maybe there is more meaning in the fact that I haven’t had sex since November, that
I no longer feel the need to fuck out my traumas and I know that I am the only one to know you, fully and entirely, to rip the mask down, to leave you shaking and teared up from the assault of acceptance that I threw at you as if I was trying to demitasse your heart, 


And I also know that I pushed you out the very door you walked out of when you left me. I know what this is now, I know the game, what roles we have both taken on in our descent from each other, and I call it a descent
because we only become less as separate parts, but we’ve practiced the art of compartmentalizing for our entire lives, and we know how to make ourselves doubt anything that might be good, that could complete us, that could fill the ditch we dug in our hearts.

We have
 grown too accustomed to that emptiness, we are both better at making mistakes than correcting them,
and we are afraid of running out of regrets on our death beds, so why not make each other out to be just another one of  those compunctions.