And for hours,
I sat in this same lonely corner of my head,
remembering what it was like to call you my happiness.
I've forgotten to feed the dog,
and the plants in the window wither,
right before my crust-filled eyes; they are not important.
Nothing is important,
when I'm remembering how
the curve of your neck felt like home,
and my fingers used to fit perfectly within your own.
I found myself sneaking up to your bedroom tonight,
and crying with drought worthy eyes,
when I saw you had taken my picture down.
The text message I sent wishing you well,
has not yet been found, and I am very aware
that you most likely ignored it,
as you have been ignoring me.
I don't know what hurts more,
the thought of never speaking to you again,
or the feeling of other peoples ******* pity.
The never ending string of questions,
"are you okay?"
"feeling better?"
"have you been sleeping?"
I'm simply wondering what the point of asking is,
when you already heard the answer yesterday,
as well as the ******* day before that:
no
I'm still looking for distractions,
whether it's in school work, or friends,
or walks along busy main roads,
tiptoeing along the insanity that is,
four hours of sleep, three cups of coffee, two ibuprofen,
and one lousy apple to eat; repeat.
My days are numbered,
at least until I find the strength
to eat for more than the lowest class of survival.
You took away my appetite with your lies.
my stability is about as easy to find
as that needle in the hay stack called life.
Anxiety causes me to memorize breathing patterns,
and inhale so deeply my lungs may burst,
but my heart rate still spikes whenever I hear your name,
and remember that we used to be known as a couple,
now people are asking me to move on,
but I'm still wearing the jewelry,
still cringing at the thought of you gone,
still sleeping with the ******* teddy bear;
you are apparently better without me in your hair.
I am deeply damaged; you are repaired.