every single day i get my heart broken. i realised this, today, during my pensive-time. since the very first time, i have been on this.. 24/7 auto-refresh, and i've never healed. i realised this, while trawling through old photographs

you changed me, you bastard. you absolute agent of absent ecstasy. and now nothing can fix me.
i was the happiest little thing. i was blithe and lovely and outrageous. and then you broke me.
i was an ugly vase, one you smash and apologise for, but don't mean, because the damage never matters. collateral of carelessness.

really, you couldn't have cared less

and then nothing could fix me
not time, not stupidity
not telling people i never cared i reciprocate their feelings out of guilt
not farfetched embarrassing crushes, and vaseline and sexual impropriety
not marathon sessions of tonsil hockey with unknown players
not occasionally wrangling your attentions
not psychologists or having the best taste in music
not marching to my own syncopated beat, quirky to a fault
not being the indisputed most beautiful

it's been years. i sleep and it tries to heal if i'm lucky and don't dream about it. never got to have scabs, edged by doubt and platelets. like when i fell down the stairs and all that is there is open flesh. maybe it's why i've never been comfortable, ever. it is why i've never been comfortable.

nothing is unbearable, or takes all my time, but i was a child. epitomised naive. how can i now say anything? how can i say i had barely hit puberty and my life went down the shitter. can't i just spare myself? but i've never been happy, or full and euphoric and it all goes back to the first time. fuck how much i drink, and how much i don't get out. how much i counteract any semblance of normal. perhaps i'm over it, but i'm not over myself.
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