Every time it’s dark, I think of you. You live in those dark corners of my mind, and so every chance you get to feel at home, you come out to taunt me.

I used to keep a diary.

I wonder if I stopped writing so that later on I can look back and say, ‘those were great times’, and not have anything to prove me otherwise.

I keep shoving myself in your way, even though I know the closer I get the less I am. And so, being nothing, when I least expect you

you lunge in full force and I
surrender
completely

and like it.

I don’t know what seems worse: all the pain that I’ve endured, or the fact that I can no longer feel it.

This is why I throw myself in puddles of shattered hearts, hoping that their shards will pierce me through and help me feel once again.
Healing those self-inflicted wounds is the only way I remember to love myself anymore.