It’s getting easier to pretend that I’m okay. But I’m not.
Most days I am able to tamp it down.
But every so often, it bubbles up, sharp and metallic in my throat.
The littlest things can remind me; a song, a word, a peach.
I don’t cry as much anymore.
But the remembering makes pangs in my chest and cotton in my ears.
I have always had a very physical reaction to all things you.
You left a crater in my world and now I pick through the rubble.
I watch movies and read my horoscope every day. I still read yours too.
I kiss other boys. I touch and I am touched but I never feel.
I paste a smile on my face and tick the days off the calendar, one at a time.
I have never wanted anything more than I wanted you.
The way I felt spanned lifetimes and continents.
I once intercepted your thoughts.
Your eyes were like magnets on mine. Your gaze made me helpless.
The depth of my feelings terrified me to my core.
I have an aversion to affection now.
You did this to me.
It’s not your fault, you did your best. You are as kind as I am cruel.
You never lied to me or lead me to believe otherwise.
And even in this small way you treated me better than I deserve.
I know in my bones that this was the real thing.
You were it for me.
Game, set, match.
They say it’s better to have it and lose it, than to never have it at all.
Now, alone, I pick the thorns out of my heart.
My fingers shaking and bloody.
The holes remain.
I’m leaking from my chest and my eyes now.
I used to wish we could never stop talking.
As long as we kept talking, I was okay.
And now the conversation has ended.
I had so much left to say.