Little Games.

Little games of life. We play little games.
I say: I forgot, I moved on. And the response is: I forgot, I moved on, too!
Which is weird. And selfish for me to think that people should not move on. Only I should move on because I was the hurt one, I was the one lied to and cheated on.
I have not forgotten little things. I have not forgotten guitar-playing and pizza. I still have monsters under my skin, not only under my bed.
He says, you have no more monsters under your bed. Who said so? Are the memories not monsters? Are the scars not monsters under my bed?
I do have monsters under my bed and I hear their breath before I sleep. I am not drama queen. I am not drama queen.
I get called a drama queen because I let it all out whatever it is. So, what should I do now?
Why can I not have a nice talk? Why can I not feel something comforting in the air? Why not?

Maybe I don't deserve intimate feelings anymore?
When did the lovers, ever, take the space of friends' intimacy?

Too many questions. Too many questions.