I keep writing about you.
all these words you don't
deserve, all this time. energy.
space. you deserve nothing
more of me, except maybe
this weight you left me with.
that, you deserve. I don't know
what it is. what links me to
you this way. do you feel me?
do you feel the inecessant
whine of my thoughts? the
childlike nature of it all,
elementary longing for a boy
for a boy for a boy for a
god forsaken pit of all the
things that wrecked me. yet,
here I am. well past midnight,
alone writing about you. they
say writing comes most easily
from broken heart, but mine
isn't really broken anymore.
a broken heart implies love,
and I don't have that for you
anymore. haven't for awhile.
that's not really the problem.
at least if I still loved you, I'd
know why you plague me still.
but I suppose these are questions
that don't have answers. maybe
time still does heal all wounds,
some just much slower than
others. but are you wound? am
I still wounded? I don't feel hurt
when I think of you. just...sore.
you know? how decades old
injuries have healed, but they
still inexplicably ache in the rain?
it's something like that. everything's
healed. these scars aren't pink and
shiny, they're old. almost invisible.
but they ache, sometimes. when
I'm alone. and the you I'm writing
to is the wrong one. the one that
broke me ages ago. the one that
deserves no more of my time. all
the while the you that loves me
sits in the other room, none the
wiser that these words pour
from my fingertips. that my
thoughts are on an old you. and
it's ****** up. I'm ****** up.
and I'm not sure which one of us
is more to blame.