It goes like this: he holds you like a question mark and you never wonder why. Lanky limbs and cold coffee, but when he pressed you close, you forget to ask where he goes in the middle of the night. No promises, he says, and you think thatâs sweet. Because maybe the world is cruel and some prettier girl broke his heart. Or maybe he just doesnât care. Whispered, half way past the moon, an I love you followed only by breathing. And even though you know heâs awake, you learn how to pretend. It goes like this: he doesnât come back one day. He grows out his hair and starts smoking on the patio of someone else who believes in mending broken pieces. Your mother says she told you so, and your friends pour tequila down your throat like some kind of consultation prize. They tell you heâs a fool, and you let them think you agree. And you tear, and you crash, and you crave, but you survive. At night, you whisper this into your pillow, and begin to remember that he smelled like secrets and women and somehow, you confused this with hope. It goes like this: he holds her like a lifeline and you begin to wonder why. But chicken legs and frigid waters, you always knew you werenât enough. And when you forget how to pretend, curled like a child under the covers of a bed that is suddenly bigger than all the world, youâll learn how to forgive yourself or maybe just how to hate yourself, but at least youâre beginning to understand yourself. Let me tell you  a story I wish Iâd known. It goes like this: we break our own damn hearts.
(via yourhandwrittenletter)
