It's fucking sick.
And I guess, so am I.
I don't know myself well enough, I don't love, no, I don't know how to love anymore. They've all broken my heart a bit; all the rejections and admissions. Almost sentiently tapping me on my now scarred shoulder, where a healing wound that resembles a cigarette burn is splotchy, uneven redness against ruddy slightly tanned skin. It's not from any person, it's something I let fester and develop into a cluster of blood vessels, a clumped and disgusting lesion that could only be removed sensibly through precision by a skilled professional with something resembling a box knife, and the flickering red torch of a laser. The dermatologist laughably coined it to be the "chip on my shoulder", the "evil twin".
I was given an anesthetic, didn't feel a thing. Initially. The precursor to pain post surgery, even of such minute urgency, is always numbing. Then comes the actual pain, the itchiness, the desire to scratch, pick, rip the healing wound apart, because it won't stop fucking pestering you. Like a sentient person. Who used to be in your life. Even if the wound isn't there anymore, even if someone isn't there anymore to watch over you, to care, to bring you the affection, joy. My "mole" lesion was unwanted in most ways, but the after effects bear resemblences to a lost person, the lost contemporary to you, the person that you were so helplessly infatuated by who just… faded from your life faster than the blink of an eye without even a goodbye.
I really cared about my asshole "friend", but calling him that would seem unjust. I don't know what he was. I let myself care too much. I felt something there, I just wasted it horribly. Surely, he was flaky, forgetful, imperfect, and flawed, but I was willing to put up with anything, anything, for someone. And now that someone I cared about has been gone for a long damn time, but I can't think of the drifting apart and the general disinterest I started to express for no reason. On a downward spiral, somtimes it's seemingly impossibly to stop your feelings from dictating your actions before they clumsily exhibit themselves before a crowd of astonished and disgusted onlookers. I guess that's the splendor of it all. I let myself get distanced because, as I've previously stated, getting too close to anyone, and showing them your personality, if you can even call my monstrosity that; is a no no in the rules manual for depressive stints it's just. unfortunate that the loser is a tumor on my arm whose stupid face and hair, and smell, I sometimes think about; is any kind of figment in my imagination. Go away, B.