I keep bleeding, I keep bleeding love...

I am a picker of scabs. I’m not sure why, but I always have to pick away at the wounds. Sometimes they aren’t ready to be fiddled with and will openly bleed, possibly setting the healing time back further. And yet, sometimes they are picked at the right moment, with healed skin underneath its scabby band-aid.

Our breakup is a scab I keep picking.

I keep picking away at it, in hopes that the wounds are healed underneath, but they never are. It just keeps bleeding, bleeding, bleeding. And it’s all my fault. Because I can’t stop picking at it. I can’t curb my expectations that this is all temporary. These are wounds that may never heal.  And I don’t know how much longer I can pick away at them, waiting for you.

Don't let me drown...

You once told me that you thought of our relationship as some long line I had committed to waiting in. That I knew it was useless—that I’d wait forever—that I should know when it was best to cut and run instead of waiting it out. I’m more patient than you give me credit for. To me, you weren’t just some line—some destination I was racing to get to. You were never the finish line or the prize. You were the journey I was always glad to embark on—that was never tedious or unexciting. You were my voyage of happiness. You still are. Although you may have given up on us and our ship is sinking, I’m still here—I’m still knee deep in the water, desperately trying to plug the holes and keep us afloat. I will cling onto us until I go down with the ship. And, even then, I will use hope—the hope of going on the journey with you again—the hope of feeling your breath on my neck once more—as my safety device.