You know I know this feeling.
The constant throat lump.
The lack of appetite.
I’ve lived and died a thousand lifetimes
with a sputtering heart that knows it’s better to love and lose.
It is still cliché, even when this agony is so real?
Isn’t it better to be raw and free than vague and shackled?
If nothing more, I am an artist.
My heart is my canvas and my *blood feeds my paint brush.
I’m nursing this bottle of heartache like the addict I am,
hating it and loving it all at once.
We pack away reminders but we can’t box up memories.
We rearrange our rooms but we can’t rearrange our hearts.
We down assorted junk food but it doesn’t fill the hole inside.
Oh, brain. You said we couldn’t trust him but we did.
I’m only lit all over with flashing gold lights that indicate danger,
but, hey, you warned me.
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*originally “tears feed my paint brush,” but I like the blood concept/language better.