He told me it’s over.

I won’t even go into the roller coaster that’s occurred over the last few days, but needless to say, I raged and ranted and screamed at his deception, his carelessness with my feelings.

He apologized, but stuck to his guns: he doesn’t love me and can’t be with me in any capacity without feeling those things.

We talked for hours, he cried some more, I balled. I told him a tale of a time I felt so desperate and lonely I cut myself. And then, after he left, after that last hug and squeeze and tear, all I could think of was those manicure scissors and I slashed and slashed at the breasts he loves so much. FUCK HIM.

Don’t feel badly for me. Don’t preach to me. We all have valves through which we release and this was it for me. So save it. Don’t tell me not to do this to myself because I feel better about these marks on my body than anything else I’m feeling on my soul right now.

It’s over.

He said, “NO.”