So I Wrote You a Letter Wedged into My Forearm

Small grains of despair sometimes weave themselves through the sutures of my heart to nestle in its bleeding centre when I least expect them. It would be at moments when I think I’m most alright, when I’ve fooled even myself into believing that I’m over it, that it happens. Without fail I would feel the start of it after trying my hardest to not think about it for months on end – at first only a small twinge of a pinch perhaps at a corner no one would notice, but like clockwork, it would stealthily grow into a slicing, burning gash if left unattended.  I may think I’m over it, that I’m okay, but every root that sprouts from that one seed and digs itself painful and deep into my core proves otherwise.

Almost everyday I wonder if I’ll spend the rest of my life repeating this very same question to myself. It sucks to have to go “what if”, everyone knows that, but what if the circumstance that gave birth to it was thrown at you without a choice, without even so much as a heads up? A loose screwball coming at you at easily 200km/h when you have no gloves, no bat, not even some proper shoes to run after it with?

Sometimes I wish we lived like the cartoon characters we see on Saturday morning TV. They are perennially happy and even when they aren’t, they at least don’t look like shit. And if anything within them hurt, like say their heart, they have the option of tearing it out by means of their own hand and throwing it as far away as they can muster.

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