I know I don't remember your face your hands what you wore on a Thursday. I don't even always remember how you made me feel that day and all the days after that. Overtime, those memories get blurry undiscernable but I do remember your eyes and how kind I thought they once were. I remember the hope I felt when I thought you saw me as I was; as I am, even now. That’s why I suppose I draw you or paint you this way so that this is the way that I remember you. Stuck somewhere between being familiar and foreign. I guess I can't discern character as well as I thought.

I wish you didn't share their thoughts. This long continuous line of lies.

I wish that you were different. Perhaps it would mean that it's possible.

I don't know what to make of that.

I guess I write this all next to your eyes, so I imagine them less beautiful, less caring, and less kind. I’m just trying to remind myself really. In this world I've made for myself, romance and remorse, regret even, can sit side by side, share cocktails over lunch and discuss my misfortune with empathy.

I regret you and I miss you.

I wish I could say I’m the same before you, but I'm not.

Loving you was a mistake, but also the best thing about being human which is to hope.

And somewhere in the middle of my disgust and my desire there you exist proudly. Only a split second. One long blink, exactly. And there, in that messiness our love can exist. So I can remember you both as you were to me and to this world. The softness in your voice and your harsh touch. Maybe I will never separate the two. Dellusion, perhaps dissonance and a love for myself and you.

I still love you I just don't like you anymore.

I cannot bring myself to sentence you to a life without me. In fact, the very idea terrifies even the most secure parts of myself. So instead, I will sit in this room, with your breath on my face, and slowly close my eyes, so as not to see. My blindness is chosen and when the screen finally turns black the last thing I’ll see is those eyes that once called me in and now won’t call me home. To love a criminal means you’ll always leave them in rooms they don’t want to be in, while you search for ones they do. To love a criminal is to obsess over proving their innocence, forgetting your own. Your crime is that I loved you past the point of love, deep into hate. I loved you so far into yourself, that I became you and found resentment. God, I wish you thought differently about the colour of my eyes, because then you’d understand their safety, their warmth.

The truth is I wish I hated you more and loved you less, maybe then we could finish the sentencing.