like a papercut
sharp. but not really that painful
more mad than anything
like when you stub a toe that’s already been stubbed before.
again.
right when it was on its way to healing.
I can’t even believe, looking back
that I was stupid enough to love you
to sacrifice for you everything
when you gave so little to me
to move ever closer to you
the more you became aloof
that for one second
I ever believed
there was something wrong with ME
that caused me to think we should ever be together.
and it aches,
and I’m so sad I don’t ache from post-love
from heartbreak
even from hatred.
I’m more mad than anything
about this wound being re-opened
that you picked at this scab that was finally starting to heal
that you
that you
that you
even exist, twisted in the sickness that was us
— well, really, mostly me —
that you now think there’s some way I can be un-freed from you
as if you ever held a deed to my heart.
it’s not a thing to be owned, and can only ever be given freely.
In my physical state
I’ve always hated the ache
Not quite a pain
But too much sensation to be nothing
I’m almost mad at myself that I’m not in a lovesick frenzy
Over the afterthought way in which you’ve treated me
Thinking you’re leaving me now,
When you’ve been gone for so long.
Don’t you know?
I got over you then –
when your arms were too full of your own bullshit to hold me
then, when ten minutes of your time at night was too much to ask.
Which serves me right for asking for so little, such a small corner of what I’m really worth.
Then again, a little of you used to be so potent before I found out that it was a false high…
and it aches,
that we were over before we could even begin.
that it took you this long to even notice. let alone care.
and it aches,
it aches.
aches.
and i wish it hurt.
…. desperately….
because that would mean, at least,
even if I was miserable,
….that I was in love.