As If I Don’t Torture Myself Enough

Maybe it’s the Ludovico that I’m channelling into my ears but, this Thursday night is lonely and, mirroring embarrassingly countless nights, I’m thinking of my ex. Tonight I really miss him in a way that tries to water my eyes and it’s pathetic, you know, because it’s been a year now, I ended it and it still hurts. If people are seeking the logic, then I apologise for the lack. He hurt me. That’s all anyone ever sees. That’s all anyone ever says on any mention of his name. “Oh you could do better,” and yes, I probably could. Bones and scars are, after all, beautiful. But then it’s not about that. I don’t care if I could do better. Why does it have to be judged that way? Maybe I just want that person, that voice, that feeling.

And now I fear that I’m going to cause a pandemic of spontaneous vomitting.

I don’t remember him as some polished, angelic saint. I remember all the bad times. I remember the point where standing under drippy trees became distinctly cold instead of warm and fuzzy. But then I also remember lying under the stars, hand in hand, like some sickening but, in that moment, glorious romantic cliche of a film.

I don’t know why he does, but he does, have this weird power over me. There is still “something” even if it’s only on my part. I have no idea why, every now and then, this whole whatever it is, trips me up and makes me think again. I really do wind myself up. He does too, just for being.

Bastard.

I’m just having one of my moments. Here’s my Ludovico;