Irrational

Loving you is akin to trying to find the last digit of pi. Irrational.

Loving you is like touching my hand to the burner and wondering why it hurts. Tho I swore last time the nerve endings have sizzled and there’s only the numbed sensation of maybe once more won’t.

Then I have to wonder why I could associate love and pain and think it makes sense to continue the charade I play alone in my gray matter.

Where I’m so well trained, I hurt myself without any assistance.

Where the world does whatever, it’s still my mind vs me. A killing machine. Devouring me in small doses. A slow death with every breath. The thoughts are like paper cuts, but the paper is a razor. And it’s always in my hand. Or is it my head? It hurts too much to think, but not thinking only happens in my dreams.

It’s easier to sleep than to live. At least when the dreams get bad, I can decide to wake up.

And start the whole thing over again.

I’d call it depression, but you’re a thought not a chemical. A what if buried in the grays of my mind and the black of my heart. I’d call it an illness, but is a problem without a solution actually a problem?

It’s just the rollercoaster ride of the libido, heart, and mind. Jockeying for who gets to run the rat race today.

I call it inertia for it carries me like an anchor. The momentum of a life lost in the prison of champagne intentions and beer pocket follow through.

I’ll get there, I say, packing the cannon with more should’ve, would’ve, could’ve fodder.

All I need is a match.

But the only fire I have is a hot stove, my hand, and a numbed sensation of maybe once again.

At least maybe if I write the crazy, I’ll feel better someday. One less rumination, or so I pray.

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