It’s funny how the heart always outsmarts the mind,
while the liver suffers through it all
like a child in the middle of a divorce.
I remember how I could feel my stomach swallowing itself,
only to randomly regurgitate itself,
when I realized I was still alive,
but at least the skin was shedding.
And I became so cold,
so cold and calloused,
chain smoking one right after the other,
only pausing long enough to get higher,
and yet I still couldn’t feel the calm.
I was antsy,
trembling that I may not be the one,
and it forced me to become whole, alone.
I was not as bored as I used to be,
with Taco Tuesdays, Sunday GOT, the same every day morning routines,
because my gypsy heart would only be content for so long before it ran again,
but yet I still fell back into old dreams,
old ways of thinking,
and those old times where I thought I had something to believe
other than myself.
Three years late from an impregnated lie,
I corked the truth in bottles,
and stopped popping the lies of anti-depressants
in order to feel again.
Now I get high on the days when it rains,
when the sun cries in front of the whole world because it misses the moon,
and I remember a time when I felt that way about you.
My how far I have come by letting the pain engulf me;
how strong I have grown by obsessively twisting the knife,
over and over again,
until I finally pulled it out,
and now that I have crawled back from the dead,
all I want is to become alive again,
even if it kills me.