Velcro Thorns...

I don't know when or if you'll ever find this. A part of me wants you to read every word, see every image. A part of me just doesn't give a fuck. Either way, I'll never know. The point is... I started this whole thing because I didn't want to go to therapy. That's for people with real problems. I hoped that expressing my thoughts and feelings here would untangle every last velcro hook that keeps me fucking pondering the what ifs. I'm convinced my typing here will exorcise my curly-haired demons.

I refuse to google you, less I find that you're doing well. I'm such a jerk. I should be more evolved. But Rule #1 of the Mutant Bunny Project: Brutal Fucking Honesty. It kills me to know that I was the catalyst to your transformation, that you're doing so fucking well now because we're no longer together. I'll forever be "that guy" you talk about who took you down to the lowest point of your life before you finally saw the light. I warned you from the beginning...

That journey was quite some ride -- You have to admit. Sometimes that ride was reckless driving in the rain that almost flipped the car over. Sometimes that ride was sex in the car at a bank's parking lot after breaking up, again. Sometimes, that ride was laying side by side, me watching you sleep, softly kissing your forehead, brushing hair from your face. Even then, I knew this was coming...

I write here because there are still thorns my body hasn't absorbed, shards that persist. And the thing about sharp objects is that it only takes a small one to cause a world of pain.