i can tell you how much i loathe anyone or anything that lingers, even when they're beautiful. My anxiety disorder can't handle any of that. Yet it's been 1 year and 1 month and i'm still stuck in reverse.
nauseated is the prettiest emotion i've felt so far cause for once, i can see an actual physical rejection, rather than these invisible strings snapping on the inside, but never showing even a blemish on the outside.
my screams have begun to ferment as they remain bottled up in what i imagine to be gruesome-colored vials within the shelves of my intestines. each vial must be carrying individual, heart-straining yelps, yelling and sobs from different moments in time yet all having been filled from one source (you).
i have paint swatches in stuck in my journals that i try and match with each of the aches that i can feel from these vials. this blue, is your eyes and this off green is the way they made me feel. color coded aches. maybe then you would have seen this coming.
the way the first of the frigid, winter wind slices by my nape, the pulsing sting in my skin and on my nerves brought about by a fire ant's bite, the carsickness my stomach theatrically incurs after being stuck in monday traffic hours too long- every one of these little lingering pains remind me of you. funny how your charm resembles much of these memories while you were at- what you thought was- your best with me.
i was sick in traffic the other night, and as it seems, a car had run over a shadow from what i could see. it was a young woman and from the size of the crowd and the contortion on every face, it wasn't just an accident. i then thought about how one of my vials was filled with the same feelings she had, before she stepped off the curb into the front of the small, white car. You have emptied and filled that vial more times that i can count. Can we even fathom what you in your misery could bring out in me?
surviving you right now is my greatest show and biggest houdini magic trick of all. to be released from this long-term melancholy and constantly riddled guilt conscience i believe, must feel like unbinding a pair of wings (mine). one day- and that's i promise to myself i intend on keeping.
on each little stone i've cast unto bodies of water refusing to skip, every sleepless night and fatigue-filled day, i blame it all on your stupid ghost. Why did you have to make me martyr and leave me lost in loveless longing?
somehow i know there's still something in me that would break open and collapse to the ground if something we to actually happen to you. i can kill you off in my head as many times as i want and never really wish you ill.
its so hard to hate a ghost.