Don't delete my number.
I want you to keep it for as long as you can.
Until looking at it as you scroll down in your contacts becomes too unbearable.
Until it hurts in places you never knew you had.
Until you internally bleed and your skin bruises deep purple and blue.
I don't know how long it will take you—maybe tomorrow, next month, or next year.
But when you have finally had enough and go to delete it forever, text me first just to tell me so.
Don't give me time to reply, just press send and delete.
Because only then will you know just how I felt when I deleted yours.
Don't reply to this Facebook message.
Even if you do, I won't be able to receive it because you'll be long blocked by then.
What you don't understand is that I must do this.
I have to keep pushing you away because it's the only thing I know how to do.
This kind of pain is the only thing I can feel sometimes.
And I'm beginning to like it.
But don't worry. Please, don't worry.
Because all sinners go to heaven.
So I guess I'll see you there.