I ride it out, I write it out.

I am still at it.

Each time I feel that writing about it, writing to him, is not doing it anymore, I hunker down and write some more.

I have thousands of words about the things I feel. They are cramped in pages of narrative, as if I’m talking to him even though I know I am not brave in sending them his way.

The power of my words acts like a regulator — I can write the most demeaning things to condition myself that nothing could hurt me more than this. It’s like a nasty form of relapse. Instead of sweating, shaking, rocking myself back and forth, I write the saddest, neediest, most hurtful lines. Three pages or 1200 words later, whichever comes first, I find myself feeling better.

And it’s with the least amount of gore. No lives bothered from far away. No emotions stirred other than mine.

It’s bound to hurt again and when it does, I pick up myself and start typing again.

I will do it until it no longer hurts, until it does not make sense to wallow anymore. But until that day comes, I will keep pouring out my emotions because at this rate, that’s all that I can do.

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