This is drawn out torture
like pulling the band-aid off
watching the skin turn white
and the hair follicles
strain under the adhesive.
It hurts; it's ugly.
The gash that is love
we're attempting to cover up
is in need of stitches,
a mending of things.
We tried, didn't we?
To stop- the bleeding,
from my heart,
from your head.
I've lost myself in this-
it's clearer to me now
that being alone in something
is better than being
lost with someone in nothing.
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