don’t.

you held my heart in your hand – red, raw, bloodied, exposed.

you used to treat it so gingerly, but these days, like the week that passed, you’d drop it splat on the floor, sloshiness and all; and your hands, badly stained by the broken shards of my heart – you’d run them under water like grime had got on them, like washing away my hurt, washing away your guilt.

so after five and a half fucking years you tell me you’re still not ready. you shouldn’t have chased me if you weren’t ready to catch me.

it must have been love, but its over now.