I keep picking at the wounds. Admiring the scab and what it represents; tracing the lines as I once traced your face; what it is, what it was, what once was; what it brought, what it gives, what it takes, what I love, what I lost.
It’s a war wound in its own right and I keep poking and probing at it until it inevitably bleeds just so I can feel (it) again. If pain is the only feeling attached to you, then pain is what I will feel to stay attached to you.
They say I’ll stop when the pain becomes to much to bear. Don’t they know my mind is stronger than my body? My heart stronger than my mind? My obsession strongest of all?
It’s reckless. I’m helpless. I’m addicted to you.