I want you to talk to me again.
I miss your suicide threats. Those nights when you spend so much time in the shower trying to scrub away your past.
You always told me after showers while we’re beside each other sadly cuddling in bed that you never feel clean anymore. That you might as well die or hurt yourself for some temporary relief.
The sad thing is—I can’t stop you from destroying yourself.
Like how three days ago I tried to stop you from cutting yourself in the kitchen when you suddenly got up of bed in the middle of the night.
But you pointed the knife near my face, and you told me you didn’t need me. That I must go because you can never love me. Because you can never love a person who thinks he’s a savior. Because you can never love a person who thinks he’s a god.
But you’re wrong. I actually think you’re a goddess. And I only think of myself as your prophet. And you’re my savior, and I love you. And I know you cannot save me from the heartbreak you caused me.
But I believe that you can save yourself from yourself. That’s why I think you’re a goddess. That’s why I think you’re a savior not because I love you but because you have the chance of saving yourself by loving yourself.
But damn baby I miss you. I want you to talk to me again. I want to know you’re still alive and breathing and breathing and breathing. Oh, how I miss you breathing.