I guess the hardest part is living the reality I swore I could not. Breathing air and pumping blood when for so long I thought I'd disappear in a snap, leaving nothing but a heap of clothing in the spot where I stood, the moment you stopped loving me.

I guess the hardest part is knowing I live when I so fervently believed I'd die without you.

Of all my open wounds, why is this the one that aches the most?

Why am I tortured by a cut, a sliver when I have spent a lifetime mending much worse all on my own?