Real.

There are these moments where the clarity cuts into my ribs like the sharpened pencil that drew you so clearly into my mind.

These moments when I know exactly how you are supposed to fit. It doesn’t make the moments nice and it doesn’t make them kind…I just understand how it’s supposed to fit this time.

There are moments where the clarity molds over and sits like a lump on my rotting brain. Where I feel it there but it’s overgrown and looking at it causes too much pain.

Right now it’s sharp. It’s pointed and exact. I let the blood gush and swig the wine, refusing to go back. I let the artery twitch while I sit inside, accept the incision and refuse to hide.

Here is the wound that was self inflicted. Here is the scar from that time you ignored my deepest fear. Here is that bruise from when you said you preferred my voice constricted. 

Here is all of me on black and white display. You like the look of knowing I have wounds. They always thought I had too much to say. 

I’ll sit in my blood, old and new, most of these are my fault for going back to the “you’s.” 

Swallow the wine, I don’t have tears to dry, that well was bled long before brown eyes.

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