I only make lists when I’m anxious

One. We will never have closure.

Two. I’m not in love with a person, only an idea.

Three. But I might be in love with him.

Four. I’m in love with him.

But, Five, I don’t even know what love is.

Six. Is love feeding on this source of euphoria until there’s nothing left for either of us to survive on?

Six. Is love replacing my swelling fear with gentle passion?

Six. Is love his arms being the only place I truly feel safe anymore.

Seven. I’m leaving.

Eight. And he won’t — no, he can’t — come with. Not for me.

Nine. But how are we supposed to be together from a solar system apart?

And ten. Ten. Ten! Why couldn’t I just let him go?

Eleven. I swore I would never hurt him.

Eleven. I swore I would take any of his pain without a blink.

Eleven. But what do I do when his pain is my pain… is my fault.

Twelve... I don’t want to go.

Twelve. But I sure as fuck don’t want to stay here either.

Thirteen. I should be happy.

Thirteen. I should be happy.


Thirteen. I should be so happy in this moment.

Thirteen. But I can’t tell if I am.

Fourteen. I feel trapped.

Fourteen. But not by him, by me. By this stupid fucking list.

Fourteen. There’s bars on my window to keep myself from jumping, but the funny thing… the funny thing is that they keep everyone I think I care about just out of arms reach.

Fifteen. I’ve sort of been distressed, but I’ve never been a damsel, and I know how to save my goddamn self.

Sixteen. So why do I expect him to.

Seventeen. I’m a bitch.

Eighteen. I’m a dog.

Nineteen. I’m a liar.

Twenty. I’m not alright.

Twenty One. I’m nothing more than these emotions.