I wish I knew how to even think of how to speak to you. I can't breath when I even see your name. I hate you for what you did to me but I don't even really know if it was purposeful. I keep hoping I can forget it and trust you not to hurt me again. Flashbacks to us laying in a hammock sound asleep, with your pants unzipped and you hand pushing my sleeping head down to yours. I don't know how to get that nightmare of an experience out of my head long enough to even consider feeling safe around you again.
And I miss you greatly. I miss you like I always have, which isn't the same way you miss me. I wasn't good enough to be yours and I never was. The best I could be to you was a face you could fuck when you had too much to drink. A photographer to take your photo when you couldn't find anyone else.
Well, I don't think I could ever stare into your eyes again without running. I have been a punching bag, an assault dummy, and a tool my entire life. One more hit to my heart, my brain, and I will permanently shatter.
Maybe when I'm not afraid to be in a bar or at a show I'll feel safe explaining this in person. Right now I burst into tears and wrote this note instead of trying to respond to your message about how shitty the photographers you're looking at are. And how, once again, you need me.
