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Inside me is a sadness so large it feels like it fills me.
There is no light besides the 20mg i force into myself each morning.
This sadness and darkness grows so readily in me that when light does show it burns.
I mistake this utter joy of feeling something other than empty with pain because my mind can cope with pain. It can cope with the burning and the feeling of being stabbed by a thousand needles.
It cannot cope with love. It can't cope with hope and acceptance. It takes this feeling and distorts it.
Love for me is not love like others. It is constant pain. Its a desperate attempt to stop the monsters in my soul from eating whatever is left of the child within me.
But I want nothing else. I want this pain. I crave the feeling of being burned alive. But I am so tired. I'm so tired. I need the pain and some would argue I go looking for it. And I won't be the one to correct them. But I don't want this pain of abandonment each time I'm too far away.
I have found home. I have found a place I want to be. But how do you live somewhere that doesn't have four walls but instead two arms and a smile that kills and fixes me each time I see it.
Each time I feel like i've gotten over the pain, or that I've cried all the tears I can I surprise myself. I find them stored deep within my soul, down where the other versions of me are.
Its moments like this, on a bus going back to the one place I don't want to be, when what I want to do is buy a ticket back the way I came, that I understand when they said that nothing in life is as easy as the movies. Love is not spilling a cup off coffee on each other.
Its calls at night and texts in the morning. It's trains and busses and hotel rooms. Its tears and laughter and inside jokes.
Its anger and hope, its old music. It's silent conversations. Its being held when you cry. Its nothing I've ever had.

And its all I have to lose.

This poem is about: 
Me

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