Lately, I’ve been choking on words I could never spit out. Daydreaming my way into thoughts of you that I tell myself I shouldn’t be thinking about.
But what am I left to do with the part of my mind that keeps retreating to you.
You’re like a bomb shelter placed close enough to shield me from the battlefield I call my life, that’s left holes in my soul like bullet wounds.
I’ve slowly realized that though you may not pierce me with anything more than words, the poisoned butterflies you’ve left in the pit of my stomach have began to form holes.
Unlike the guns that aimed their bullets through my skin, I didn’t see this coming.
Surely sometimes I had felt sick, I’ve just been so accustomed to feeling sick that I never seek help for anything I can’t view in plain sight.
And you were never more than a bomb shelter. You could help keep me safe while I healed myself, you were just never qualified to look after the damage.
And when I left, it was fair game. I could return with more wounds, but I’d always leave with the same.
I left, and I left..
Yet I always return again.