January, The Feeling Of Your Sheets Against My Skin Is The Only Thing That Gets Me Out Of My Bed Anymore.

January, The feeling of your sheets against my skin is the only thing that gets me out of my bed anymore. February, My birthday passes, the little Pisces girl with too much love in her heart, you don’t call me. March, They say spring is coming but it snowed today, I’m losing hope.  April, The word therapy comes up a lot in conversation but I never go. May, I walk into the woods a lot and try to lose myself, I know it too well, I decide to get high instead. June, The men that drink at the bar squeeze my ass when I give them their bourbons, I let them, they tip better than anyone.  July, I love my tan skin and the feeling of the sun against it, I’m happy until the night gets dark. August, I see you at the gas station filling up your Jeep, you smile, I buy myself a pack of cigarettes. September,  I quit smoking because he says I’m too pretty to die young, I disagree. October,  It’s getting cold again and he is not you, but sometimes I can still pretend he is when he’s pulling my hair. November,  I don’t remember much but the taste of liquor, and the sound of the door slamming when I leave him.  December,  I forgot what your voice sounded like until I answered your call. You ask if I’m okay, I ask what you mean by that.

A year spent missing you (via weallwritealong)