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It’s the fact that I woke up last night, reaching for skin, panting with fear,
And believing whole-heartedly you were next to me and having it be unreal.
It’s the image of you wrapped in arms that aren’t mine,
And the weeping that carries throughout the middle of the night.
My pillow covered in snot, holding my screams.
My heart rate that tells my body I’m in pain, even in my dreams.
My internal voice shouts, “Why couldn’t you make him happy like she?”
Until I press my hands together in prayer begging for release.
It’s the minute right after 9:59
And wishing we could go back in time.
It’s the fact that I never learned to cook,
And your face is seen everywhere I look.
It’s the warm shower that I turn cold in hopes that you’ll join, but never do,
And the soap that rains off of my body onto no one else’s and wishing it was you.
It’s Mac Miller and Anderson Paak.
It’s keeping my favorite pillow in the backseat of my car just in case you ask for my smell back.
It’s the fact that I cant crawl into someone else’s bed in order to no longer feel your touch.
It’s feeling stupid for letting you become my crutch.
It’s hours of mediation and tarot cards to remind myself that we both deserve more.
It’s asking my ancestors how long I’ll be this sore.
It’s the hole in my stomach that won’t let me eat,
And my tired mind that won’t let me sleep.
It’s mindless wondering if love is real or fake.
It’s feeling like there is no end to heartache.
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