You used to
tell me
that everything
would be
alright, no matter
what happened
to us. We're destroyed,
we've fallen
apart, this
is it. It's over,
it's over,
it's over.
I'll be
okay eventually when I
forget how
soft your
hair felt
in my hands,
and how electrified our
bodies were when we
kissed.
I'll consider
myself alive
when I stop believing
that you still care,
that you
still stare
at
your phone wanting
to contact
me, and
having to
hold yourself
bach from confessing
all of the things I
already know
when you've had one
too many
drinks. I'll
make it out of
this when
I stop looking
you up and
checking
in on how
you are
and who you're
with. I
will be be
"alright"
when I can
finally
say goodbye, but
dear, I don't
think I'll ever
be alright
then.