You call me and you think I won’t write about you? Of course I will.
You call me and every line is déjà vu.
I bet you have a script, don’t you?
A script that you tell over and over to all the girls you bury alive.
I’m sure.
You call me and I hear your voice and there are no butterflies, no sunlight, no favorite songs.
You call me and I smell dirt, I taste dirt, it’s all dark.
Not. Again.
But, six months? It took you six months to call?
Six months and I hear the same thing.
Six months and you still have the audacity to tell me that you care, or want me in your life.
But, six months? Six months and I still despise you.
Six months and I’m still cleaning off dirt from the minuscule spirit you left behind.
You call me and you think I would welcome you with full arms?
You call me and I immediately regret not changing my number, running away, changing my name, getting zapped by the Men in Black light–need I go on?
The point is…
The point is that six months have passed and you had forgotten the vile you spit in my face before I took 60,000 steps backward, hoping to reverse the clock.
The point is that six months have passed and I still remember your last words to me.
The words that felt like acid to my core.
The point is that… Six months and you manage to be the contradiction of being selfish enough to call me despite how that one phone call would make me feel, and then saying how much you’ve grown up and realized your mistakes.
You’re an idiot.
But, I don’t need to tell you that.
Six months and I’m still broken.
Six months and you’re still a disease.
Six months and the only thing I see is dirt.

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