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And just like that, out of nowhere, I smell your cologne. I feel it unearth all the memories I tried so hard to bury. You’re long gone but I can feel it wrap around me, trapping me in my unwanted recollection of you.

It seems that I can’t erase you from my memory or my senses. And as I stay there, seemingly indifferent, I feel a slight throb in my chest; a dull and barely noticeable pain. And with that comes the reminder that I still miss you, even though I know that I mean nothing more to you than the girl who’s affections you didn’t want.

I no longer yell when I’m angry because I’ve seen how it affects people. Now, I just keep my anger within silence with a seal on my lips, but now I wonder if that is any better…

Is the storm that announces it’s arrival before it hits better or worse than the silent storm that hits without any forewarning?

When all you do is destroy yourself with bad habits, there’s no one you can blame but yourself.

I wrote you a letter but I can’t remember the details of it. I have gaps in my memory, pockets of space of things I cannot remember. What worries me is that the days are passing me by and I can’t remember anything. The days are merging and blurring into one another and if I can’t recall a single thing at all, I know that things are going to get worse because when I’m not able to remember everything or even anything, it means that I’m going to fuck up. I’m slipping and losing my grip on reality. When that happens, I’m going to lose my grip on who I am and what I mean as a person; when I forget my self-worth and begin to define myself by my failures, I’ll self-destruct.

And I don’t want you to be there when it happens; I don’t want you to see me like that. I don’t want to fuck you up more than I already have. And it’s a matter of when, not if. It will happen, and when it does… just know that I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough.

There are times when my own writing makes little sense to me but makes perfect sense to others. As a writer, I aspire to continue to write pieces that will either make sense to me as its creator or make sense to others as its audience.

I feel like that’s why I write – to either reach an understanding for myself or help someone understand themselves better.

I think that the first step to healing is actually admitting that there’s a problem to begin with.

The second step would be talking about it with someone that you trust – wounds only begin to heal when you expose it to air.

The third step would be to get help.

The last step is to believe that you can, and so you will.