I don’t know why I think you’ll make me feel better. In a twisted way that is the point.

Something in me deeply craves heartbreak. Not the real kind, with all sorts of messy consequences. The abstraction of loss, just to see little birds spill from my veins. All for the sake of poetry. The bluntness of knowing exactly where you are, and exactly where I am. Telling myself there is no need to forgive, because we’d just forget anyway. Crying cause dearth hurts.

Sometimes I need to know, that you know, that my mouth is dry. Sometimes I imagine you on yourself. Free.

I will always come back to sit at this seam. A fool for the welling. Okay to be alone. A part of me will forever squat here, knowing best to write it down. Ghosting. Vexing blood from the stone. Even if it is my own.

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