The Problem

And you feel it… like a venom that has been infused with your blood slowly killing you deep within.

You know it’s real.

You know that it’s real because you can feel death seething on to your skin. You know it’s real because it hurts and you cannot numb the pain. It’s real because even your mind says it’s real. It’s real because you’re all alone again.

You can’t breathe and it’s okay for you have forgotten what it’s like to mind yourself. You can’t feel anything and that emptiness is painful in a sense that you are hollow. The thought is the cause of your misery and yet every limb, every organ, every cell demands your full attention for they are yelling “it hurts”. Your entirety hurts and yet it doesn’t. You have been here before; a couple times in your past.

You have explored its sharp edges, the ones that made your supple skin bleed relentlessly back when you first set foot in this dreadful place. Once, twice, thrice, you know this place like the back of your hand; but every time you go back, you know that it is not than better the last time you dug your feet on to this place’s hard, cold ground. You know that the ceiling is made of sharp ice and yet you touch it and you bleed again and again; never learning from your past.

You know that the dagger can harm you and yet you pick it up, slash it across your chest, leave yourself open and let it all dry out. You know that you mustn’t, but you do it anyway because the right way is always the wrong one and yet it is right… it feels right. You tell yourself again and again that you will never fall for this and yet you go back and you endure the pain like it was the first. You tell yourself never to give your heart out and yet you give it anyway. You tell yourself never to love again and yet you love greater than the last time you did… and so you don’t get any better.

When love fails and you come back empty and lost, you know that you can recover and yet you always choose the harder path. It is easier to mourn and to overthink your shortcomings than to overlook it and forgive yourself. Your scars will only develop a thicker layer of skin and so you believe that the next couldn’t break you harder than the last but you offer yourself more than you did before and so the next has their claws anchored deeper within the walls of your scars and when they leave you are back to that place as wounded as you were back when you first had your first heartbreak.

My first heartbreak.

That’s my problem, I guess. I tell the world and I tell myself that I am braver this time around but I am not… actually, no one really ever is… If you really want to find love and let love find you, you have no choice but to give it your all. You cut yourself open and let the other person in. If they’d  plant wild roses within your core then you’re a lucky one, but if they’re that kind who wouldn’t do much than just occupy your life then you are in for another death once they feel like the space is no longer enough for them.

That’s the problem when you believe in love.

You let them in, let them rule you. You trust their edges, you trust their disasters, you let them in, you love them. And when they leave, you’re back to that lonely place. You bleed, you cry, you sink, you die, you resurrect, you heal and once again you love….. You love greater than the last time that you did, with high hopes that this time they’d stay. And now I am broken but I am pretty darn sure that I will fall in love again.

Again.

Again.

And Again.

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