it hurts because you carry the weight of your past on your already screaming shoulders. it hurts because you have misinterpreted love for what it is not. it hurts because he reminds you of someone else, but at the same time he is not at all that person. your wounds have not yet gone to sleep and it stings when you wade into his embrace, for he is the ocean; it hurts because it shouldn't hurt but it does anyway, and you still have not learned to love properly. he tells you he loves you and his words are medicine that you have become reliant on. too reliant? you shake your head, surely not.
but why does it hurt so much still. love should not pain you. sometimes your eyes are like faucets that turn on by themselves. pain seems to love you, it kisses your arms and collarbones — sometimes when you wake up in the middle of the night, its taste lingers inside your mouth. your wounds do not want to become scars. they want to mimic spring flowers, and open up when he does not answer your calls, or when you are all alone, surrounded by ghosts. inflicted by others. healed by others? a part of you hopes that he will close your wounds. sip your tears. whisper that it will be alright. but why does it sting. you try too hard to make this work. you fear his dismissals, his nos, that the current will sweep you back towards the shore. no, you do not want to be left lonely. please stay. you want to be loved, to feel loved, because you still don't know how to love yourself.
