tell yourself; it’s for the best

you have an addiction to sadness, a dependency on desperation. shoot up self destruction/drink in your loneliness until you can’t see straight. live fast, die young, leave behind anyone who ever loved you. 

tell yourself it’s for the best as you close the door. it would’ve ended anyways— you’re destined for despair. equally returned love is an impossibility, you tell yourself. 

your whole life could be contained in that one summer, that one night, and as it crashed and burned so did any chance of a future you might’ve had. let yourself be haunted by the memory of a cracked voice and a back turned away, but only for a moment.

wash it from your mind, scrub until the memories of carefree joy are nothing but stained remnants in the shape of babydoll eyes. sadness is all you’ve ever known, you try and convince yourself, there’s no other alternative. 

this is for the best, you tell yourself. there’s no use in hanging on if you’ve only ever felt the fall.