Supposed Freedom

The spaces between our pages never felt so empty; the gaps between our words never seemed so disjointed. I wrap bandages around my legs and my arms and my head to try and keep myself together. The air whistles through anyway, pointing out that I never secured them well enough. I wish I could amputate my heart — the source of all my disease and all my pain. I would be able to hold it in my hands, and maybe I will be able to figure out why you are the one owning it. I could send you letters explaining everything, but you would understand nothing, so I tear them to shreds instead. I am giving you peace and giving myself torture. Without a story to tell, we’re just drifting. My timeline consists of laughs and tears, and I wouldn’t take anything back, but sometimes I wonder which one of my mistakes caused all this radiation to seep into me. I am mutated; I am transformed. I don’t want to repeat our failures, but you’re not giving me much of a choice. I miss you so much, but you don’t want all the complications. I understand completely, so I say nothing at all when I am dying to spill everything. I wish you knew what you were getting into when you said you didn’t mind. Maybe if you thought it through, maybe if you didn’t even bother to care, I would be free. In my supposed freedom, I am the trapped bird without wings. If I was happy before, why can’t I be happy now? Nothing is as real as you are to me, but there has to more. I could write for ever like this, and I am scared that I might. I could end everything right now, and I think I bent enough that I am almost about to break, and I think I might end everything right now.