Paris, you're breaking my heart.

You got your pocketknife that you're father gave to you on your twelfth birthday and you stabbed it right here into my chest. I didn't scream because I wanted this. I wanted to feel something other than guilt, because I wasn't sure if I still knew how.
But no one is going to love me with these scars.

Paris, you're cold and it's winter. I've never been one for big coats so hold me close and keep me warm. At least keep my fingers from turning blue.

You've ruined me because all I want to do is let you catch me, and falling is dangerous.
I catch myself bleeding for you.
Screaming for you.
I catch myself writing words I never knew I could think for you.



Then sometimes I catch myself thinking about us.

We could've had a love affair made for story books and independent movies.

We'd live in Paris and leave love letters on the pillow when we got up for work.
Our high school secrets and our screwed up families wouldn't matter anymore.

We'd try and learn French but we'd both suck at it, so we'd move on to their fries and their bread and their kissing.

We'd tell our own stories. We'd write the books and the screenplays. And people would grow up believing in love because of us.

But then I remember that I loved you once.
I loved you, and you loved her.
The ink stopped and the printers quit.
And our story ceased to exist. 


the end.

esther.