Writeher.

This is what she told me. That writers are passive aggressive by nature and judgemental by trade. That she doesn't place emotions out of context or talk about unimaginable shit. So, i backed away. Tucked my poems away in a journal beneath my desk. Replaced passion with sarcasm. This digression was necessary for me -- the impenetrable-complex-baggage-girl-- to make me feel adequate again. I pretended to have answers and she pretended not to have questions and maybe that's where it really began to fall apart. We fucked to pass the time and fought for feeling. And after the seventh fight she told me it was over because I didn't write about her anymore.