070110.

There is this perpetual wound that I consistently rip open every couple months. There is no rhyme or reason. I live my life, mostly without him, and I’m fine. I’m more than fine, I’m great. But then, every couple months I get this ache. I feel it coming on and anticipate it with dread. “No good is going to come out of this.” I tell myself over and over. And no good ever does. I rip the wound open without any thought or concern for the simple well-being of myself and I let it bleed for another couple months. In typical anxiety ridden fashion I’ll eventually try and cover the wound up, bandage it, lick it, beg it to heal. It’s a great distraction. This time though, I’m letting it bleed dry. Because I just don’t give a fuck anymore.