Giving It Up
He is that itch I could keep on scratching.
A tiny tick sucking my blood.
He's a wound I could continue licking
until my tongue feels like fur and I can't taste anything.
How can I keep hurting myself so much?
Why is it the finiteness of things that fixes me so,
draws me to the end,
holds my hand while we circle the drain?
I'm going down,
But finally I know someone else that holds my hand like it's the finest jewel
with dirt under its nails.
That keeps my heart safe,
Like the way he'd lock and key his own...
How could I give that up?
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I wrote this poem during a small trip circle with some new friends who all share a mutual love of poetry and self expression, and were popcorn-ing off prompts/writing a stanza and having another participant finish it. I'd been thinking about my ex a lot at the time and missing him, and this poem just sort of flowed out and struck me right in the feels. It helped me cry a lot later on though??