I'm not good with endings.
I rush rush rush to the last page of a book, yet when I close the back cover it's always accompanied with an empty feeling in my stomach, since I read right over all the good parts. The last bite of a meal, compared to the first, is always a disappointment. Sometimes I wonder if I can even taste anymore.
The end of a relationship, though, God I'd rather just sleep through it and wake when it's all better — when someone, anyone but me, tapes my heart back together like a torn Valentine and puts my eyes out in the sun to dry and all of the memories float beyond arm's reach into the deep water so I'm not tempted to swim out and drag them back to shore.
It seems so stupid — and I'm not a stupid girl — to try to love again, when love was so cruel the last time around. And the time before that. And all the times before that. Was it though? Or do I only remember the last bite, now cold, it's been sitting on the plate for too long, and forget to savor all the sweet ones before it?