fake vanilla


If this is what feeling nothing feels like, then maybe I have reached a point of transcendentalism. Maybe the ghost of you will go on and finally leave me alone. I really wish you would. I’m sick of late-night calls and silly pillow-talk when I know for a fact you don’t mean it. I’m sick of your name being in my mouth like an unfinished whisper.

I’ll tell you something: have you ever tried pure vanilla? It tastes horrible, but smells great. It tastes like shit. You’re like that vanilla: it smells great but when you finally get you want, all it is is shit meant to be with other things and not by itself. i.e., not me.

So when I decide to come back, I’ll call you. But until the time I can stop myself from doing anything for you, I need to be on my own. I’ll go to New York, right? Be a … something, at least. Get myself together so I can be better.


P.S. At least you’ll never receive this letter.

View this story's 1 comments.