I Wish I Still Had Scars From You

I wish I still had scars from you.
Because when I remember
how I hurt you,
I want to rip my skin
into shreds of paper
that blow in the wind until I am no more.
I wish I could bleed,
tear at my soul
until nothing exists
but the blood and the bone
of my very being
and I am alone.
It hurts to recall,
a pit in my stomach
growing and absorbing all light and life
until it sits,
gnawing at my heart,
indulging in each beat with relish.
And I’m sorry.
There’s a passive aggressive bone hidden
somewhere within the ribs,
maybe the third one down,
and it poisons my mind.
And I’m sorry.
My blood is ichor,
but the devil’s instead,
and it scorches and twists through veins
until boiling into one unleashed act.
And I’m sorry
that I can’t find the words to express it.
That I have to be rude.
That I pushed you away.
Because I can’t have people close
when I fail to live up to
the expectations
of myself.

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