She doesn't know what it means to let go of something. But she always remembered how it felt when something slipped through the cracks of her fingers. It must have not been a coincidence that human's hand got those tiny little spaces in between: one would only know to hold on if their hands were meant to cling so tightly to someone else.
She's gone - oh, she's gone.
Honestly, she sort of wishes someone would do something as crazy as she used to do, for all those she had loved and destroyed. Don't misunderstand her, do you; after all, all she wanted was for you to pay her a little bit of attention, to call her when she didn't expect, to think about her more than she pledged you to, to show up at her door when it's nightfall and when she already gave up.
But that was just an old wish, she understands now.
(She wrote a lot then delete them all. It was pathetic, and she doesn't quite know how to speak pathetic. Vulnerability breaks all hell loose, trust sets her up for betrayal. It's okay. It's not the first time people forget her. Might as well be the last time she's concerned about such a thing.)
(She wishes she had been jealous when she had the right to. Nowadays everything only requires a few sleepless nights before she finishes convincing herself it ain't no shit.)
(It's not like it changes anything, anyway.)
(You can't quite lose things you have already lost.)
.
.
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