it still flares up on occassion
like I slept on it wrong
and the wound doesn't reopen
but instead aches and aches deep within
below my flesh and into the marrow of my bones
where you still reside
somehow not a mocking face of failed love
but an ever-present reminder that it didn't
I still love, I do, though I wish I didn't
the people aorund me don't
and they don't see the stains you left on me
nor the way I still ache from time to time
it's a rotten thing, to love you still
after the pain you caused me
the blatant disrespect of our relationship
at the end, I was so sure I'd come to
hate you like all the others
but you aren't like them, are you?
you've rooted down inside me
and if I roll over a certain way
I feel you there
like a thorn or a stake
something jabbing and incessantly drawing attention
at least for a little while
given a day of rest, it heals back over
that shredded up edge of where you live
inside the hollow of my torso
that tore to remind me of my traiterous heart
the part of me that feels fond for you
even now, even this far, even after the time
I'd shed my love like an old coat
if I could take it off
tear it out of where it's made home in me
to stop the aching
I don't miss it once it's recovered
but it's sore more often than not
it isn't fair to those I love fully
not even to you, to be honest
a broken and buried love isn't true
or just or kind or real
is it real?
is this pain imaginary? as is my "love"?
with you, nothing ever makes sense
I dread the day you return home
you plague me as is
I wish to be freed
rip it out, give it back
I do not need of this any longer