What does it says about me when I feel so much pleasure in tearing out my own stitches with my teeth?
How do I explain that my tears reopen all my wounds?
How do I tell you that I'm a masochist and there's nothing more pleasurable than suffering for love?
How do I put into words, on a canvas, the feeling that makes me want to rip my heart out of my chest just to show you it beating for you?
It's as if all this pain were that persistent itch, and having a reason for it to overflow from me is like finally allowing myself to scratch. Scratch and scratch until I'm bleeding for you again.
Will you still love me? When you see me with swollen eyes, smeared makeup, tears streaming down my face, and blood everywhere? Will you still love me when you discover that I am everything you fought so hard to run away from? Will you still have love in you to give me when you know that I am much worse than you imagined? That I am everything you rejected to get where you are today?
Either way it will hurt… and at least I’ll have an excuse to write again.