This isn't about you.

"I heard you've been thinking about me, again." he said. His eyes scanned mine like lasers. “I heard you don’t breathe sometimes because our memories make you weak. I heard that sometimes at night, you stop dreaming because all you can dream is me coming back one day, but I won’t. I will never come back.”

“I never want you to.” I muster.

“So why do your eyes cry for me? Why does your heart beat faster when the memory of me comes past your recollection? Why do your stories reek of my smell?”

“Everything reeks of your smell; except my stories.”

“Have you read them?”

“No. I wrote them.”

The silence caused a void between us. With each word I was saying to you, I felt a bit of our past peel off me, like remains of a sugar cane that melted in a hot summer; our summer.

“If you somehow come across a poem of mine and think it’s about you, think again. If you’re reading this thinking I wrote this about you, stop. Sometimes, I want to write something and I hesitate because I'm afraid I would hurt your feelings, or the feelings of whomever wants to believe those stories and poems is about them. My life and my feelings are about me. If I want to complain about cruelty and my life going wrong, I will. This is my comfort zone. Go find your own." I spit out.

"I never took away your comfort zone. I'm just looking out for you, I'm making sure you're okay." he yelled, his hands held out defensively. "I'm not some freak who just follows your stories around. I just want to know how you're doing!" 

"Then ask me, not my blog." I rolled my eyes, "I just wanted you to know that what I write has nothing to do with my life- it's my way of letting things out. Each letter is my cigarette, each word my addiction and you seem to be the rehab I never asked for.

I’ve moved on because I know what’s best for me...I’ve changed.” 

“I don’t see a change.”

“That’s because you haven’t changed.”