rage and recovery

missing you is therapy

one month

three days

four hours

twenty-three minutes

and sixteen seconds

since your voice rang in my ears.

poisonous words

sharp like knives 

running through my chest

my gut

you're fucking crazy

fucking crazy

crazy

crazy

c r a z y

and even though it tore through me like

a tornado to a silo

I knew then that I had to run.

But i didn't want to. 

a wounded, traumatized part of me

clung to the hope,

the feeling of freedom,

the feeling of feeling anything at all

and begged me to keep you.

and i wanted to.

but in this month and three days

and some odd hours and minutes

i realized

through all the pain and the wishing and the wanting

and the banging of my heart against ribcage bars,

that the pain of missing you could never compare

to the pain of being an afterthought

the pain of words falling on deaf ears

the pain of love underneath the soles of shoes.

everyday i wished for nothing more 

than to hear your voice and see your smile

but those wishes were a fools prayers

to a god that never  bothered to visit his own alter.