I couldn’t remember.

I couldn’t remember our first kiss, nor the last. No matter how much I concentrated, I couldn’t remember the first time when I realized how hard I fell for you. I can barely remember the way I was once drawn to you; you know, the way you feel when you realize that the reason every other relationship failed was for this one, for us and our bodies clinging together. Instead of remembering all the good times, all I am left is with the bad. The dull, the boring, the torturous, the humiliating times.

I have begun to wonder whether there really were any good times. Was I just drunk all the time? Did you slip some drugs into my drink when I turned away? I vaguely remember thinking that you were a sweet guy, a genuine man, but now I can see how foolish I had been to think such a thing even existed. I wonder if I ever even knew you, because three years later all I am left with is a bitter taste in my mouth and a few cracks in the piece of flesh that I call my heart.

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