Sometimes I find it hard to care. I always manage to return, a stupid circle that doesn’t make sense, one I cannot erase. I wish I hadn’t learned, or that I had forgotten. It’s a part of me now, it tears me apart now and nothing I do or say seems to work.
But I haven’t quite tried every single thing I could have done or do. A small scrap of hope and maybe this time- I am not optimistic. Pessimist is my given name and realist is my life’s creed and yes, maybe I just don’t want to feel pain, despite it’s ongoing affliction I still shy away from it. Should I not embrace it to my chest and suckle it to my veins and grow it as my own, a cancer of my demise?
I am tired, and I hardly win any battles as I lose this war, why can’t I seem to get it right? These bones warn me and my tally dissuades me. And is this the day that the ink and black claim me once more?