I think I am addicted to, the ache in my chest, the heaviness in my breast, when I read another's pain, whether it is yours or mine, it's all the same, I can't decide if that's normal,
or if I'm insane? Endless tears I have cried, but somehow it's not enough... Is this how you get tough?
Is this how you get immunity? To the never-ending pain, laced in every heart, poem, story, and art?
I don't think it ever stops. I get better at feeling it, and letting it out, but somehow, it's always there, waiting, hiding, and it feels unfair. I feel so vulnerable, my soul is naked,
susceptible to the cold. I've always liked the cold, it steals your breath, makes you feel alive, because it stings, it sucks the warmth from my bones, and bites at my nose,
blows through my clothes, but I love it, the agony of being awake, being alive, it's the closest to the pain, I feel inside, when I read someone else's, "please, don't leave me,"
"you're all that I need", but it's a lie, and someone always says goodbye.