i don't think anyone knows,
how deep this ache goes. 
move on. 
get a new hobby.
do things you like.
my therapist asks me
how do you feel now
and talks about self worth.
like the dichotomy of self-loathing
and self-love is somehow the answer.
i've been lonely,
so. fucking. lonely.
for as long as i can remember.
its an ache that i will do
anything to ease.
my soul is lonely. 
my bones are lonely.
they say do a hobby,
like manifesting pain in a painting
will somehow fill the empty spaces.
like running will fill the void
in your bed that makes sleep
seem like it will never come.
you have to stop running sometime
and when that high wears off,
the dark will come for you.
it waits like ice and wind in the dead of winter
and it sinks into you in the kind of way
that makes you forget that you 
ever knew what warm was.
its the cold that makes you want to
drag razor blades across your skin
until you can write poetry in your blood
in the shower and watch as the red
turns pink and pink and swirls away.
its the kind of cold that makes your bones
ache and your skin burn,
and you hurt. 
you hurt so fucking much,
but you're so, so good at this
that no one even knows
how much you fantasize about blowing 
your brains out by the pond. 
how you keep pouring out love
again and again and again
and wondering how fucking defective you are
that no one stays. 
you can't bake it away.
you can't hike it away.
you can't write it away.
you can't run it away.
you can't paint it away.
you can't fuck it away.
you can't drink it away.
it lurks and waits, 
dark and heavy and empty,
and you have to exist with it