i don't know if you pick your scabs if you're the kind of person that walks right into hell because choosing pain is like flicking a toothache with your tongue and making a cocktail from leftover liquor because the air tastes foul like it's the obvious choice to close your throat with scar tissue than to breathe in another day averting eyes squeezing fists so tight they cramp and writing the next draft of a letter you know you'll send just as soon as you're sure it's going to kill you to still feel the lowest unworthy resentful hate love that remembers what it felt like when we were together i don't know if you're that kind of person but i am