Believe.

When we lay there and told each other that life would get better from now on, now we had each other, I believed you. I really did. I had dreams and ambitions, I wished upon a star and I swore that I would find the strength to reach them. I once saw Mars spinning uncontrollably close to the moon. I thought that meant my wishes would definitely come true and I went to bed the happiest I have ever felt. But in the morning, you had changed and when I tried to touch you, you tensed up and leant away from me, adamant you had class, even though you promised we would go skating. I lay in bed for a while, arms behind my head, legs crossed, staring at my dull ceiling, wondering why we let ourselves become attached to human beings, when we know that inevitably it won’t end well. It will end, for sure, one day, but it won’t end well, it will end bad, and then what? We hurt, we get over it, and we do it all over again; stupid, stupid humans.

But the thing is bitch, when you tell me to believe, all I can think about is the lie in the middle.

I take a shower, a longer one than usual and punish myself for wanting you to be with me, by turning up the heat and grimacing when the water burns my skin, turning it bright red. I stand for as long as I can take the pain and then turn the water to luke warm and sit down, letting my skin cool, and letting my tears join the droplets that fall all over my body. I stay leaning against the steamy tiles until the water goes cold and when I leave, there is a flame orange tinge swirling around the plughole.