Feb 19
Wanting is a horrible thing.
It makes you ill.
It makes you tired.
It scars you over and over,
cutting so pervasively,
the wound can never heal.
Until one day,
you catch yourself saying their name,
like a reflex,
like a yelp.
You try to outgrow it,
to drown it in routines
and hobbies and other bodies.
But it still lingers.
You can’t ignore it.
This gnawing,
this pressure,
this hunger in your chest.
That tightens when you breathe
and loosens only to choke you harder.
You can erase messages,
delete photos,
try to build new routines.
But it keeps screaming anyways,
calling for what it can’t have.
Until thinking of him becomes a form of self mutilation.
I’ve been chewing myself raw.
