To feel nothing
Your touch still lives in my skin,
a sickness that hums beneath every breath.
I hate it —
the way it crawls back,
the way my body remembers
when my mind screams no.
Sometimes the noise inside is too loud,
and I do small, desperate things
to quiet it.
I chase a different kind of ache,
one I can control —
a pain that belongs to me.
It never lasts.
The silence breaks again,
and I’m left shaking,
hollow,
counting the seconds
until the ghosts fade.
If I could tear out the memory, I would.
If I could wash off the feeling of you,
I’d drown it in light.
But it clings,
and I keep breathing through the sickness,
waiting for the world
to finally go quiet.
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