It starts by removing the gold star by their name on Facebook,
So that you no longer witness every picture, every status update, every comment.
You collect all the stickers that you have been saving for love letters,
And you give them to the kids who live upstairs, who stick them on their coats and lunchboxes.
Slowly, you tear each poem into tiny pieces,
Watching words like
Rip apart, right before you feed each of them into the flame of the candle you keep in the bathroom to cover up the smell of shit.
You change the sheets on your bed,
Because even though they’ve never laid there with you,
You’ve spend countless nights imaging the sound their skin would make against the sheets,
And you are secretly afraid that if you cry with your face into the pillow,
You will taste that spot where their neck meets their collarbone
And never be able to rinse the flavour from your mouth.
You take a bath,
Fill the tub until it cannot hold any more hot water, vodka, or ashes from stale cigarettes.
You try to wash your hopes away with dollar store loofahs and that soap you bought because it smelled like their laughter,
And then you douse yourself in drugstore perfume because you regret using that soap that smelled like their laughter.
Naked, you stand before the mirror,
Running hands over the parts of yourself that they’ve never seen
But they have already rejected,
Wondering how simple flesh can be so ugly.
You take a sleeping pill.
You spend the night watching sitcoms on Netflix,
Trying to convince yourself that the canned laughter will keep you company.
It ends by snipping all the stitches that seal your soul to your body with the pair of kitchen scissors
That you pull from a drawer
When you exchange the empty vodka bottle for the full-ish bottle of whisky.
There is no blood when you sever your soul.
There is no need for splatter analysis or Rorschach-style divination –
Everything anyone needs to know about this soul suicide
Can be seen from the way you are lying naked on the floor,
Singing Patsy Cline,
In between rib cage-shattering sobs.
Tomorrow, you wake up hung over and numb to anything but your headache.
You take four Tylenol and chase them with a bottle of coconut water,
Put on lipstick,
And smile like you are anything but dead inside.
This work, “Crushing the Crushing Caused By a Crush” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.