Sometimes my bruises will burn. It’s nothing like a broken heart or a crack to my ego. These pains are slow, achingly empty, and chronic in every sense of the word. It’s comparable to an uncomfortably warm spot in an otherwise cold vessel. And no drugs ease the ache, they only blur its echo.
Sometimes my cheeks flush. It’s a mistake on my part, though. Every goddamn time. Blood rushes to the surface because I think they care. They don’t. I’ll go pink because I think he might actually enjoy kissing me. He doesn’t. I’ll even apply my own artificial blush because I foolishly assume that if I look like I care, maybe I won’t really have to. Hasn’t worked yet.
Sometimes I starve. It’s never the same hunger for long though. Instead, I vary my deprivation. Because I’m weak. Monday without the sunshine. Tuesday and Wednesday without writing. Thursday without food. Friday without heat. I go without because the brief discomfort keeps my mind from emptying entirely.
But this is only sometimes. You see, occasionally, I’m wonderful. Sometimes my ribs don’t ache when I breathe and the music I create sounds just right. Sometimes I apply myself and I don’t shiver at the thought of reliving the past. Same as night and day, there is light and darkness. It’s all there all the time. Everything comes down to perspective and timing.