Old Habit

I dream of fires and of death. Of lips sealing, of angry words. I dream of losing you, over and over, as if I didn't face that truth enough. I think of you always. I've thought to myself a million times what an idiot you are, but I simply won't convince myself. Because you never really were idiotic, were you? And isn't that what makes it all so much worse?
I'm trying to find substitutes for you, I pretend that they are good enough. I pretend that they'll do. To everyone else, I pretend that I'm fine, that I'm okay. Even when I have the chance to tell the truth... I don't. Why?
I don't know. Maybe you could tell me.
I don't want this. I don't want to long for you. I don't want this burning sting in my heart when I spot you in a photo, when I remember a song, when I remember your words. When I have to realize that you're not here.
My sis don't think it mattered at all because we never lived together. But maybe that was for the better anyway - or it would have been a ton of times worse when you left me.
I don't understand. I have tried. I have tried to accept it. I've tried to believe your words that you one day simply didn't love me anymore. But I can't. It just rings falsely in my ears. And all I do is wonder where you are, how you're doing, if you're alright.

I've begun an old habit of mine again. I take out that needle, and blaze it with a lighter until it glistens black and silvery against my eyes. I take that needle and stick it through the palms of my hands, ripping the skin up in flakes as I go. What's left is an uneven surface, skinless, pierced by a thousand holes. I have made myself that rag doll that I draw.

Much like once I did.
I miss everything.
I miss you.
I didn't sign up for this shit.
POET IN THE JAR