There’s this part of me that hungers for the bloodlet. It’s like breaking a bone to set a sprain or lighting a controlled burn to put out a fire.
I search for it in movies and songs and stories, and try to kindle the sound of my heart to the beat of someone else’s pain. A cheap attempt to tap into my own lingering through the veins of another.
But all the words are angrier and the melodies, sadder. All their wounds cut deeper. They’re shattered, and I’m just bruised. It’s uncomfortable - like a coat, two sizes too big, on a day not quite cold enough to warrant.
There it is again.
This persistent, unshakable feeling of never quite enough. Never quite enough said or taken back. Never quite enough right to stay, never quite enough wrong to leave. To really, really leave. And remember why you did when the weeks pass and your phone lights up the bedside table with "I miss you’s" that you want to hear but know you shouldn’t return.
Cause there’s never quite enough time spent to get it straight. To really forgive. To justify the repetition of it all. Never quite enough effort made to combat the tinge of a shallow, slowly dug trench that moats your heart with featherweight resentment.
And all I feel is confused by the notion that if I don’t care that much than why do I still care at all?
Almost loving you sliced like paper cuts.