Once in a rare moon, I still cry late into the night. My thoughts are my own, but my emotions suit me badly. I have no room for them. No room for this want that claws at my insides, shredding them like a cat in heat, screaming to get back to you.
I grab the feral creature, rein her in. Shove her into the pit of my belly and lock my ribs tight around her. I am smothering her, trying to make the awful yowling stop.
I never was built for happiness, but I shoved myself in and made it fit the mold.
Nevermind the ocean of longing that I still bleed. My wrists still bleed seawater from the gashes that we made long ago, lover. I held the knife, and you held my hand.
(I am broken and dark)
These days, I ignore the wounds that we so loved to lick together.
These days, I bind my arms tight with comforters and lace dresses. I ignore the love weeping through despite it all. I bind it tighter, pretend I’m whole.
I pretend you weren’t always going to be the one.
Is this what being healthy feels like?
I’m sorry that I wanted it.