Thinking about you being with somebody else makes me want to drink myself into a coma.
Fighting with you makes me want to smoke the sneaky cigarettes that have been hidden, untouched, in my chest drawer for months.
When you leave me alone, untouched, all that will console me is eating and eating until I vomit.
Except that I never do (drink myself into a coma, smoke, or vomit) on the off-chance that you will come back and tell me you love me.
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