I could be happy. I could be contented, jubilant for the sake of so many reasons and people. I could be lively and making merry with great company over alcohol and smokes. I could be all that. I really could.
But somewhere sunken deep in this hemorrhage of mine, I know, despite often refusing to acknowledge, I know so distinctively that I gashed my own gash, breached my own breach. I constantly allow myself to land in situations where I know hurt is of abundance. I didn’t make it happen, but I let it. I saunter the scorching dessert barefooted, climb the most barbed fence, all on purpose with the lucid knowing that I will, in one way or another, get flung into a series of damage.
It’s like a disease, this abnormality of mine. The need for letdowns, for love to lose it’s way, for friendships to bear burdens that friendships should never be allowed to, for the people I love to give me a reason not to reciprocate. The need to be hurt, to be hauled into a befuddlement of emotions. The need to squeeze every last tear out of my eye, the need to stop healing and start hurting all over again.
I don’t cast my mess of a life out to delve for pity, or a shoulder to lean on or any of that Hallmark crap for the matter. I just desire to be allowed a chance to sit back and savour every lasting moment of this affliction, to feel the soft jerks as the tears trickle down my cheeks and not be bombarded with questions. Because ‘Why’ will never have an answer, because I’m not in a hurry to know, and because if I ever do, it’ll mean I have to stop hurting and start healing.
So, no. Just, no.
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