It's okay.
It's okay that when it gets bad, I talk to the walls as if every piece of you was inside them. The splatters are just like your freckles now that I think about it, although they are red instead of brown, just like my hair. I think sometimes I have kept it red just in spite of you.
It's okay that your last kiss was like a thousand razors and I am pretty sure he can taste the blood when he kisses me. One time you kissed my neck and whispered 'I love you' and I don't know how I never felt the cut before now. I guess beauty really does blind.
It's okay that I have stumbled around for four months, always ending up in a hoodie of yours or near an old memory. I'm just a late bloomer learning to walk. (I swear someday I will run without looking back.)
It's okay that I am kissing salty tears instead of your lips, because dear lately I have been wishing to drown and your oxygen was poison after a while anyway. I am glad to be feeling something because I am tired of feeling as empty as my fathers bottles he left instead of his love. My cheeks may be tear stained stained, but my arms have been stained worse. My eyes may be red, but they'll never be as bloodshot as they were the first week after you left.
It's okay.