I never want to see you again. The first time was only not the worst time because of it’s promise to be the last.

I don’t need to meet you to know you. In my head, we’ve spent at least a dozen years inside one another, filled to the forever fucked brim with every little misery we could offer up together. Our minor happiness was only a brief fantasy, a shared dream that inspired a devotion that bordered on cultlike- we were never what we wanted so desperately to believe in. We were never capable of anything even similar. I wish I knew the way to make you see that we’ll rot in precisely the same pattern, alone or tied to one another, lockstepped and ever as lonely as we are at this moment. I CANNOT CONSOLE YOU, I cannot offer absolution in my skin or the seeming sinew of my limbs. I have nothing to offer you, and it could never have been otherwise.

What we had didn’t mean absolutely nothing, but we ourselves did. We needed so badly to believe in the possibilities offered up by what our child-selves didn’t know enough to keep. But, it seems to me that we will never be the right people at the right time. I know it seems insane that I’ve decided this without your physical presence ever sharing space with mine, but it’s a singular aspect of my borderline psychosis, this decisiveness.

And above all else, be decisive. Make your decisions like a decapitation. Cut off the head in one swift, hard motion, or you’ll never sever the stem. This, I’ve learned in all of your absence.

Absence itself is a physical presence. It is a thing to behold, but never to be held. It is also, curiously, my fate never to be held again, I fear.