I always want the things I can't have because thinking that I don't deserve them makes me high like nothing else. I'm a pathetic martyr who wallows in her own self-pity over the never ending feelings of inadequacy, taking long warm showers to dilute all the voluntary teardrops from her eyes.
In October he went to New York to visit his aunt. I stayed behind in a city that more and more came to resemble a prison, once again. He wrote to me. He sent me a real handwritten letter with little stamps and stickers on it, just to say that he missed me where he was . He wrote all the sparkling autumn leaves in Central Park loose their color next to you.
I guess I should have been glad, but I don't function like that. I knew he was talking to someone else, that even though he wrote my dearest Avy, I was in fact just a reflection of what he really wanted and deserved. I always knew I wasn't enough, that I would never be anything more than a waste of his amazing affection, a hollow face for a perfect love.
I knew it was time.