A month. I've been keeping track of the days. After fifteen I moved the chair. After twenty-two I picked up the syringe. My veins were crying out for knives, nerve-endings aflame. Instead they got a needle, heroin coursing through my blood.
I wish it were as easy to block you from my mind.
You say I could have called. Perhaps I would have, if I'd thought you'd answer. (If I'd thought you'd care.) What good would it have done?
I invent fictions, lies. I wanted to see the kitchen and It's all for a case. (It was that too, but it was so much more, a way to ease the yawning chasm in my chest, there since the wedding and before.)
If you'd wanted to talk to me you would have called, texted, shown up unannounced. You've always been better at these things than I have, what was I supposed to think? That you were pleased with your new domestic life? That you were glad to have me out of the picture? We'd never gone so long without talking. (Well . . .) Of course I thought those things. How much longer would it have gone on, if you hadn't found me?
You've made my armour crumble. Here I am left, with tracklines etched deep, skin still crawling for the blade.