I wish I didn’t feel as much as I do. 

I wish I didn’t feel as much as I do. 

I wish pictures didn’t make remember the feeling I had when they were taken. 

Unable to part with them for fear of losing the memory but unable to contend with them because of the feeling I get when I look at them. 

I remember it all in the moment. 

The intent, the hope, the disappointment, everything. 

I wish I could trick my heart into forgetting the hurt, but it’s a physical wound, like a bruise being poked. 

It’s such a strange thing to be over something but to feel such empathy for the version of you that wasn’t. 

To know that I really do know what it feels like, because it was me that felt it. 

The only comfort is knowing that while I may have felt the pain in the past, it’s like a ghost that can’t touch me know. 

Just phantom pains on the scar it left. 

But how is anyone supposed to be open to more hope on the chance of it not hurting this time. 

I’m not brave for doing life solo, it’s the ones who seek company that are brave. 

I’ve taken the cowards way out. 

But I’m mustering up the courage to change that.