Seven Years

I am not as I once was. My skin is thicker, cuts white and banded beneath ink, muscle strong, brain more settled. And yet I think of you. Someone who caused me so much strife in my youth, were the cause for much of my shifting mind and bleeding skin. The reason my muscles are bigger then yours.

I haven’t seen you in seven years and yet I think of you. I am unsure if I miss you, or perhaps being a teenager where everything was easy to digest. How do I digest this?

Seven years of hating you, seven years of having loved you. Is your impact truly so big, that I will always feel as like I am mourning something that never died? Buried a living creature that causes me more grievance then something as pure as love ought to?

Why do I still feel a pounding in the back of my skull like fists on a one way partition whenever I kiss, touch, try to love someone else? It isn’t fair.

I wonder if I ever cross your mind. I hope I don’t. I wish I do. I wonder if you feel my fists on the glass reverberating when you kiss, touch, love others.

I wonder if it’s the horrible twisted strings of fate, or if I am truly insane like you once said I was.