I’m sick of finding strands of your hair on my pillows and in my shower. Some of your clothes still occupy space in my drawer. That picture is somewhere in my glove compartment. Your shitty music infested my iTunes library. The collage you never finished is still in my closet. Last semester’s texts are scattered in the back of my car. Your ring hasn’t moved from where you left it before you walked out.

You want to come collect your shit before I throw it out? I hate being reminded of your existence.