He left me. 


After four years and a million memories, each one now stings like a paper cut soaked with vinegar.


The weight of my love for him crushes my chest and my lungs scream for relief.


But instead of helping me breathe, I watch as he walks out my door one last time. 


I drown the rivers falling from my eyes with sangria and try to silence my gasps for air in my pillow.


As dawn begins to peak through the window I find myself reaching into my bedside table.


The familiar crinkle of paper acts like a lifeline pulling oxygen back into my lungs.


My pen seems to have a mind of its own as it spills my sorrow onto the page like blood.


Hours later I look down at my scarlet magnum opus and the tears have stopped. 


I’ll be okay. 

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