not even worthy of page six.

9/17/10.

i could hear the frustration
in your voice
[again].
the little sigh you added
to all of your phrases
cut
me to my core. you
were tired of
my
antics. my sadness. my inability
to move on.
me.
you were tired of me
and there was
nothing
i could do about it.
nothing i could
say
to make you understand. this
was the end.
finally.
the end of cigarette breaks
under the street
lights.
there would be no answer
when i called,
sobbing,
at 3am because i got
too wasted to
function.
no one would be there
to hold my
hair
back when i threw up
all of my
meds,
just like the extra meals
that i feared
weighed
on my rib cage like
a death sentence.
pity.
at this rate, my whole
damn body could
decompose
and you wouldn't miss a
step. your breathing,
unhindered.
i never knew what it
would feel like
to
mean nothing to you. nothing
but a distant
memory.
a girl you fucked, a
girl you maybe
loved,
whenever it was most convenient.
but it was
me.
and i thought we meant
something more than
this.
but the truth is, i
guess i meant
nothing.