over it

Recovery comes in waves, and somehow it consumes me from the inside out. Satisfaction overtakes me as I’m drowning, except I know how to swim this time. Honey spills as the girl who writes my pain on my body puts her hands on my neck, choking me till I accept the blade.
The ghost of my past self takes pictures of my skeleton as pretty boy waters my insecurities and gives it what it wants. slow at first, but he begins to taste more like empty promises . It’s August now, and there is not much room left for anything to grow.
She refuses to hold me, as I live in fear of my own body. “How will you run from this, my yellow?” ——— I wish I had it worse so people would believe me. Death is like a bend in a continuous river of becoming and certainty, and I’ll never repair it.
Revival allures me as I fall asleep somewhere intangible; there’s something broken being fixed in the unsuited suffering. The fire died out long back; the hardest part about putting it out was accepting it never wanted to burn in the first place. acceptance visits my grave everyday and whispers, ‘even in death you bleed love.’

paradox