You once wrote me a letter detailing how you no longer wished for us to be together, because you wanted to be with someone more for real. Perhaps you had a point, in fact, I’m quite sure of it. For longer than I care to admit I wanted to win you back by proving I could be that someone, that I could be normal, but as time passed the emotions I held for you faded and I no longer saw myself as damaged or broken but as myself. When I turned to writing, you became a muse to me. Instead of a lover with a wicked tongue you became a ghost I would use to hurt myself with when in need of a piece of writing. I’ve written in the past that artists are self-harmers because we pick away to conjure emotion when feeling numb. We do it to save ourselves from imploding. You are the scab I keep peeling back. And although it makes me feel so dirty, the pain you give is my favourite kind. Those lips of yours for sure are lips I would do anything to kiss again, and yet I won’t, because the older I get, the more I’m drawn to those who know what it’s like to be on the outside, and you my dear still crave so desperately to dance within the circle of life- or whatever life is supposed to consist of according to those who claim to have it all figured out. When I stood back and watched from afar the wreckage of my previous guise, there was nothing I wouldn’t have given to have again joined that dance, but as the years have come and gone I’m not the same. I’ve changed in ways that are both strange and peculiar. I used to be someone, but not someone I ever want to be again. And even though you keep whispering into my ear when I’m curled beneath the covers late at night, I just leave you hanging in visions you always told me to resist.