i miss you and i shouldn’t. not like i miss my childhood blanket—no there was no comfort with you.

more like i miss the moment i was cut. my blood was oozing at a steady pace and i used every fabric to halt the taste but your iron tongue and salted mind coated me and stained my pride. 

the wound has since healed. scabbed over, faintly scarred. i think of you in violence—but the most violent by far—is the thought that i still miss you.

cause in your absence, there is nothing.
but with you, i was bleeding.
and at least that was something.