Bleeding Out Love
Shared by Tastes_Blue.
I speak about leaving my love to evaporate. As if my feelings for you will simply dissipate, tinging the air around me with a sweet, pink haze.
I speak of it as if it’s a gentle process. But it’s not.
The love doesn’t just go on its own. I needed to cut it out. I needed to crisscross my heart with scalpel-fine cuts so there would be wounds for it to bleed out through. I needed to rub salt on the sore so there would be pain for me to wash away with these wasted tears.
And when I couldn’t get rid of the love I felt for you fast enough I had to find ways to make my heart bleed more. I had to collect all the precious moments I held in my heart, like fragile glass bubbles, and smash them one by one. I had to feel the broken glass cutting through my heart from the inside out because the more I hurt the more I bled. And the more I bled the sooner there would be nothing left to bleed out anymore.
And so this is how I doctored my heart, with bloodletting. With loveletting.
No, love doesn’t just go. It doesn’t flow. It doesn’t trickle. It gets squeezed out one painful drop at a time by hands desperate for it to be gone, from a heart desperate for it to stay.
And it’s those drops we collect in the inkwells of our souls. We dip our pens in the congealed blood and write with it. We write and write until the inkwell runs dry. We write until the sticky, ugly mess we drained out of our hearts has been transformed into some flowing, beautiful thing that fills our pages with magic and our heads with stardust. We write because the words deliver shots of morphine, numbing the places in our hearts that are raw with weeping, puss-filled sores.
And so, this is why, I have written so much of you.
– Jolene Raison, Tastes_Blue
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