Ache


I don't think about him anymore.
I can't. When I do, I can't even breathe.

So, instead, I do anything else.

I get up and I walk for hours, trudging through endless fields that all look the same.
That's what I need.
Monotony. That's what works.

I drink myself into oblivion, desperately looking to find anything but answers at the bottom of a glass.
Barmen don't ask your name.
Anonymity. That's what works.

I lay in bed and pull myself to pieces, tallying up all my faults and shortcomings.
It seems to take at least an hour longer every night but I never forget one.
Routine. That's what works.

I create little melodies in my head, beating my fists against the wall in time.
People see bruises and ask me if it hurts and all I can think is they've never been in pain, not like I am.
Purgatory. That's what works.

That's what I crave. That's what I need so I can breathe again.



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