Fuck it hurts

I'm tired, of pretending I don't need anyone to care
Pretending, I don't need relevancy
or meaning in these experiences
of waiting for reassurance
from my fearful expectations of objectification
and I'm tired of needing anything other than
what I've already got

Which is,
everything I could really need
an idyllic life actually
and every reason to expect good things to come
still, I'm obsessed
with not having attained it yet

And that every boy I've met since
I left my old self behind
has treated me like I was charming enough
for a few nights but never enough to love
or at least that's what I'm afraid of
It's not exactly like our union was an insult
In fact it's the opposite

I know firmly I could get most anything I wanted
the real challenge is being opened up
when I know someone's gonna pour the salt in it
eventually
So, my waking self is set far in from my skin
so it can't feel the surface

No heat, cold, or pain
no sunshine
no quivers
no consequences
Just details for stories and rationalizations
also known as denials of my deeper emotions

But I am inching my toes toward the edge
ready to leap off, confident
the knot in the rope will bring me back from it

eventually

Almost prepared to believe
I could bounce back from anything
But it's taken me all this time
since I knew what true pain is
to think maybe I could risk
going through it again
all this time to believe maybe
letting it hurt won't be the end of me

I mar my skin little by little
and it starts to get a little more painful
Every time I laugh
there's a sting on the tip of my nose
and when I put my pack on,
a pang on the underside of my arm
and every time I cross my legs to write a poem
my thighs burn

and I smile a little each time
to remember a feeling, a memory, a look
could actually be just enough
and if I couldn't feel the sting
I wouldn't had felt a thing
so go ahead and hurt me