i still taste the past, but its getting better
and i remember the moment you told me you loved me.
it was wine tinted lips touching eachother and fingers not quite touching and
i was swearing on the inside that there was no way you could ever love a fuck up like me.
but you were still there when the sun rose, and you were still there 6 months, a year, 5 years afterwards
and i think i've broken the curse that i carved into my ribs when i was bitter and angry and thought the whole
world was against me, when really it was just me against myself.
the past still stings my throat like reflux, and i still want to die most days out of nothing but habit.
if you spend 3 years at the bottom of the
hole you dug yourself, its a hard habit to kick.
i think all those people were right.
shit gets better.
but not as fast as it should, and its not a smooth, straight line.
it gets better, and then you fuck up, and then you're okay again and then its shit and over and over until you learn how to be
a normal human being.
but it gets better.