and it aches,
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