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You are cursed.

The stabbing pain that comes with parting and the countless years of bleeding wondering what you could have done. Bearing the sting of rejection, the ache of failure. You wither away in silence except in the lonely nights you cry his name even in your sleep. Your bed becomes an empty coffin for you to return to, day after day,  where it is as cold and lonely as your heart. The places you go and the memories you see, and the knowledge that they are not beside you to remember as well.

He talks. Simple conversations of daily happenings, of work, of friends, and family. He laughs and you smile, sad that it isn't because of you but happy that he still can. You want to beg, you want to cry, you want to fall into his arms, and just say sorry. But it's too late for sorry.

You party to numb this pain but it only roars back when you take even a second to think. You see him through the crowd but you know it isn't him; He never liked to dance except when he was alone with you, in his room, to "Iris" and "Invincible". You break down into tears in the club bathroom, holding up the line, but you couldn't care less because you are alone.

You had never been drunk before and you try to find a way to forget. Forget blended margaritas and shaken cosmos, pure Smirnoff burns your throat and stomach as your thoughts turn hazy and warped. You wake with tear trails on your cheeks in the bed of someone whose name you don't know, and you gather your things and sneak away, hoping to leave the guilt behind.

You turn to the blade, to scar up those arms and legs he would touch and kiss and caress and hold, with words of how you were the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. They would stain your clothes as his words stained your memories, and both you had to hide with long sleeves and even more cuts.

Thinner you grow and smaller your heart becomes, tiny, hard, bruised. You scoff at the couples kissing in the movies and the couples in the lobby, but you ache for that one special kiss. You're cynical and skeptical, mocking every couple and shunning every touch and refusing any happiness. Your head rules you, no romantic notions ever swimming to cloud your judgment and laughing at the mention of love.

A single pill at first to sleep, then two and three, before you soon find medicine not meant for sleeping. Vicodin can numb the body, maybe the heart, too? But they leave you hazy and unable to stand, too aware of your hurting and your thoughts. You lay on the floor, beating the carpet with your fists until you are bruised from head to toe, and left only to scream until sleep finally finds you.

And he knows nothing of it.

Until you break down and cry one midnight, after one too many sleepless months, spilling every wrong you ever did now and forever, begging him to still be your friend. You hurt and you don't want to hurt. You haven't held anyone since he left, barely touched anyone since he had, never kissed, much less out of love, or spoken from your heart, and you tell him. You bleed for him and ask for a touch, for him to hold you as you sleep, for a sincere smile.

And he is there. Smiling, touching, waiting with arms open.

You will wait. For a friend, for a chance, maybe for nothing. With him standing there, always willing to listen, to talk, to help, what else can you do?
But if he is there, you will wait.

You are cursed.
It's a curse to be able to love.

I, myself, haven't done most of these things. However, I've done them in my dreams. When I go off my pills, I have very vivid dream. I'd rather feel what I'm meant to feel than stifle every emotion.

poem(c)me
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March 20, 2011
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