To dwell on 'what ifs' is to slowly die and torment the mind until it crumbles into dust. There is want of focus but thoughts are being placed into areas meant to be forgotten. The door is shut but the lock continues to be picked and examined. Scabs are scratched bleeding open and the bacteria is let in once again. It's been here before and immediately begins to probe familiar areas. It's bored. The salt from tears still taste the same, the name still sounds the same, and the pain still feels the same. Nothing has changed, nothing has healed, but nothing was ever broken. The dust particles inside of the head are exploding. There is want of focus. There is lack of focus. A wild imagination is a backstabbing friend because the what if's have now become what should have been's.