fractura hepatica

sometimes, it’s morning. and i’ve forgotten to brush my hair again. or how to tie my shoes or what my name sounds like. And that i don’t believe in anything anymore and that’s when I realize that i’m losing little pieces of myself to you and the tip of my tongue is stained with the taste of stale paint from the renovating you’ve done with my mind and for the next four hundred and seventy three and a half hours i’ll be staring at the ceiling. since i’m waiting for your flavor to fade. or maybe i’m just waiting for you to come back to me. since my fingertips are losing their feeling and the strands of my hairs are splitting. I’m aging in reverse. or fast forward. and the next time you see me, i’ll be older than i’ve ever been
before. so press play since i’m sick of being stuck on pause and some days, when i’m waiting for the earth to move again, i count every one of my eyelashes and measure the distance it would take for them to fall so i can calculate all the wishes i’m missing and in a hundred and fifty one days, maybe i can wish that you never happened or maybe i can wish that you really did love me. and sometimes, I pray since i like the feel of your name in my mouth and the way that pretend tastes and the fact that maybe repeating something is enough to make it true. but the truth is this feeling is the exact opposite of believing. and right now, i want to be twenty three minutes into forgetting you but instead i’m watching your lies change shape as i go backwards through my memories. i like to watch your carefully pronounced vowels wrap into endless loops where you and i become concentric circles since that’s all we are. we’ll never touch and we’ll never go anywhere again. but all i am are my words. and sometimes, they’re not enough. and maybe i’ve wasted the last forty seven minutes trying to convince myself that “love” and “in love” are two very different concepts. maybe they’re not. and maybe if they are, it doesn’t matter. since maybe i say i’m not in love. but i’m a liar. the problem is so are you. you once told me, my heartbeat was your favorite song. well, broken hearts don’t beat anyway.


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