I guess in the end what really kills you is the part of you that knows that it could have worked out. It could have, should have, would have, if you weren’t so fucking sensitive or too fucking sad all the time or if you didn’t cry too much for him to handle. It could’ve worked out, but he couldn’t fucking take you even though he said he’d stay when it still felt like you two against the world.
Now it’s you, and your constant high, and you can’t help but think, would he love me now? Glassy eyes and laughter spilling out instead of actual conversations and walking the tightrope between too sober and too gone and you can’t help but think, maybe he’d love me like this. Maybe he’d love me now that I’m too numb to feel anything, let alone be myself.
