Mind the skulls, Deary

I find it odd and yet fascinating that pain compels me the most, to write. Especially heartbreak.

Why can’t I write as well, or at least feel inspired to write when I feel good?

I don’t know, but there’s a name given to people like me: dirge-singer.

Or “emo”. I guess it depends on which millennium you grew up in.

I mean, I don’t personally remember the previous millennium, but sometimes I feel like I can almost scry it. My mind’s eye picks up a variety of times and cultures and influences me to try to live through each of them.

Of course, since I’m basically making up what I think it was like at any given time/place, I realise I’m probably well off the mark– but it still entertains me, to do so.

A break-up feels like a death. That feeling when someone really important to you, dies. I hate them both. I want to say death is worse, because you absolutely can’t avoid it– but on the other hand, one of two things about love must be true, which sometimes feels worse. Either:

Love is avoidable, and I keep falling for it despite my best efforts to guard against it–

or else it’s unavoidable, and I was doomed to experience many deaths without a funeral or closure rituals.

Either way, seems like a bitch.

Oh– this is probably the part where I should mention, my lover and I didn’t break up– or maybe we did, but decided to undo it.

Either way, it feels like hot nails in my heart, and the coldest, emptiest abyss in my stomache.

Just … loss… such loss… it really is the worst feeling I know.

I gave you all my keys, Babe. Even to my skeleton closet.

Cheers to Bluebeard.


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