Clawing into myself,
digging, scraping, scratching a phantom itch.
Amputating feelings, thoughts, emotions,
always excising love,
to feel some pain,
for once, to feel the ache, the heartbreak, the anger, the desolation, the loss, the pangs of remorse,
to feel anything at all,
not this numbness,
these tattered synapses, this innured state of anaesthetised unfeeling, the brittle thoughts that shatter, painless, when I stumble and crash, and fall.
I ache for the ache, pining to pine, hungering to hunger, bleeding fragments of myself, only to bleed, to feel,