razor blades

I know I promised I wouldn't cut, and I don’t. Now I burn — after smoking one too many cigarettes and downing drinks so strong they put a hole in my tragedy. I take the lighter and graze the fire just slightly, enough to watch my skin shrivel up, but not enough to leave a scar. I hate that I do it, but I hate more that I feel myself tumbling into the dark— and I despise that you’re the first person I think of. You bring me back a lot. Once I utter your name in rooms you’ll never exist in, it tumbles off my lips like razorblades. Strangers I’ve only just met, trying to make small talk over drinks that will most likely kill us before the depression does, cannot tell me how much I was a fool. I tell them our story, and they ask me how long it’s been. I tell them — a while. Every day, time elapses, yet still your name rolls off my tongue like razorblades, still slices me so deep I can’t remember why I loved you still. Each time, it’s a little longer— missing you is a little stronger than I am.