i'm not pregnant again. but i'm fairly certain you knew already when we were standing jagged under the broken bulb in the hallway and you made that joke about my swollen breasts. now, i'm just vaguely depressed. and i keep replaying old conversations we've had throughout the past year in my head. like taking sleeping pills for nightmares. every time the story gets stuck like a twisted tongue where you say the thing about trust. and i'm too afraid to write anything down, anymore, because i can't stand the thought of ripping memories of you out of my life with a razor blade again.