When you've been torn one too many times,
There is an unusual intimacy with the pain.
When fleeting emotions of stranger lands wash over the scabs,
You ache to scratch, to bring forth the wounds.
Happiness does not sate you
Pleasure can't guarantee peace.
Strange emotions from stranger lands.
You miss it, you miss the bleeding cuts
You miss the people with hearts as cold as daggers
You miss them all,
The chaos and the one who created it.
You miss yourself.
You miss destroying yourself
And building upon the ruins
You are stuck now
There are no knives to fall upon.
It's only you here, unarmed.
As vulnerable as you were before,
But nothing that hurts.
And you ache for that ache.

Tags: Pain, Love, Ache, Torn, Hurt, Poem

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