pain killer

instead of remembering how much I miss you based on the very little you gave me

may i stick to the pain that it was when i saw her with you on june 15th? when 3 days before that, on valentine's day, you asked me out on a date.

instead of remembering the longing, the waiting, the fantasies,  - that were way more beautiful than reality

may I just remember how fast you got dressed to leave my house a couple of hundred times after you finished  what you'd come for, even when you had nothing else to do and it was 3 in the morning.

After you put on that show, on Saturday, about how much you cared, how you defended me - when actually in your own speech you were yourself humiliating me. 'charles said him and I are partners (because we both had you) - was he referring to you or Paula?' when paula is another girl you made sure you mentioned you had sex with, when i clearly asked you not to -  how's that supposed to make me feel better? it only made me feel small and guilty for not appreciating your attitude.

instead of dreaming about getting to you know your daughter, or your mother - and in bed read her the books I bought her a year ago - just like the photos and videos you sent me the other day - may i just stick to the excruciating pain i felt the day after you told me you'd bought me a record of the band I'd only once mentioned to you a year ago - that made me feel seen and special, and even thinking that was it - you were going to ask me to be yours - and then, after 12h  seeing your publicly posted message to her 'juju - to which she replied 'bruninho and a red heart' 

instead of hanging on to what you said when we passed by a church 'lets get married here, fefe' may i just recall the fact that I went to your gig in another city, after we spent great time together - after 3 months of not doing so, and when you saw me there,  you greeted me in a way it felt so distant, as if we were complete strangers?

i beg of you, my heart - do not let go of your pain, for that is your only way out of all this mess