Word association: I say love, you say hearts, I say broken, you say glass
And now we’ve made a connection between love and glass, we can start to conceptualize the fragility of love. But the start is nearly a minuscule imperfection in the glass. Once you’ve gotten used to the chip in the glass, you maybe even start marveling in its uniqueness. That is until it starts leaking its contents onto your skin, but even then you start to counter with how its odd ways make it beautiful and you will keep saying that even as the glass digs into your hands, tearing through your skin and bursting your capillaries, making not only its contents leak onto your skin but now your own blood running down your hands, to your fingers and drip drip dripping onto the linoleum floor. And yet, you will still sit there and praise it for making you feel and making you show your insides to the world as if the glass isn’t shattering into your bare hands, getting stuck between the tissues. Like you’re happy about you’re blood stained hands. Proud, for how far you’ve pushed yourself. But now that you’ve touched the glass, everything else becomes mundane and lackluster. You now cannot see yourself except through the shattered glass. Tiny fragments of who you used to be edged with sharp and jagged boarders. Forever feeling the need to feel. Numbness is nice when the pain is too much. But what about when there is no longer pain. What about now that you are “better.” Sometimes old habits die hard.
Word association: I say love, you say numb.