15 April 2015

I wish there were words.

I keep trying to catch a few, but they dart by like minnows.

There is a tightness in my chest and throat that I've come to associate with you. Sort of awful, really, to equate you with symptoms of illness.

But maybe you are an illness. And if so, I must seek a cure. Self-medicate? Self-surgery? Can I cut you out of me like a cancer?

Would you even notice if I did?

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