(or some form of thought, it's difficult to form sentences four PBRs in)
about love poetry.
about my own regurgitated passion,
and i thought about picking at my scabs as some sort of distant metaphor
reopening wounds.
by trying to speed the process of healing,
you are prolonging scarring.
i thought about why i've gone back to hanging out with
a person who once broke my heart.
it wasn't her fault,
not really.
even though my mother tells me to not get burned again,
i've always been a masochist.
by trying to speed the process of healing
you are
prolonging scarring
and i couldn't help but wonder why i want
to have my cake and eat it too,
these disappearances and reappearances of need
craving a sign from anyone, anything
that i am important.
i picked at my lips, a game of removal with as little pain as possible
success (moderate). bleeding (imminent). ugliness (a permanence).
healing, speeding of, attempt
scarring, prolonging, only
masochism
i think
