I lie awake at night and list off all the ways I avoid feeling the ache in my chest. All the little things I do that become desperate behaviours of my personality trying to fix itself.
Like collecting books and arranging them in order across the shelf, because the fantasy of a world so different from mine feels like a void I can fill my room with.
Like placing my physical sentimentalities in a box at the bottom of my drawers, so it feels like I have a private place to bury myself in and know there is something good still alive somewhere.
Like sleeping with the curtains wide open, because I like to fall in love with the dark from a safe distance, and still imagine suffocating myself in it at the same time.
I tell myself that If I fill all the spaces with enough distractions, I can forget why I was sad in the first place. I can convince myself having the rest of the bottle of ***** will make me feel more alive than I do sober. I can convince myself kissing a boy I don’t know will make me feel like I am worth being loved. I can convince myself my childhood no longer screams in my ears that my existence is nothing more than a burden.
Until I’m lying in bed listing off all the ways I avoid feeling the ache in my chest, and I realise it’s not an ache but a hole that’s been bleeding forever. And there’s not a patch big enough to make it stop.