Late night texts, some dull knives that pretend caresses, other fluttering fingertips that pretend comfortable familiarity. You stare out the window and try to comprehend what you might want to send in return, but it's all ants in your belly again and you wish the liquor bottle on your windowsill wasn't quite so empty. Today, 8 years ago, I moved back to New York, my second time around and this time it would be for real, it would be the one true love to last forever. Two years later I landed on old, familiar shores with my heart broken in my hand, the remains of my possessions in a torn shopping bag, and I thought that I would never be happy again.
The day passed in useless inertia, in circles of self-abuse and uselessness, but perhaps this is the price I pay for the ticket. Perhaps this is the blood sacrifice to get to that space where the story speaks in my stead.
If it will get me there, I bleed willingly. If it will return to me, whisper to me its secrets, I will bleed myself dry. I will tear at my insides until they are all clawed out, I will scream at the walls until the paint peels off.
Don't you see?
I will kill myself just to live.
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