Division

So little time has passed, and already I miss the feeling of your arms around me. I, I know, do not want to go back. I (I know) cannot go back. But my body doesn't listen to me. My body would be happy to go back to where it felt it belonged.

Now that I am away, I can almost afford to listen to my body.

Almost. I will hear it, no matter what. My body does not stop talking to me. I (my choosing self) is done. Done in. I need to collapse on my metaphorical back and stare at the symbolic ceiling with blank metaphysical eyes. I have no more words. I will not--cannot--respond to my chattering body even to tell it to shut up. I only sigh and shut my eyes, and my body's craving threatens to drive me crazy. Somehow I need to get my body outside the room, and lock the door.

Stop. Stop telling me what you want. Don't bother wanting things you cannot have, things you were not happy with when you had them. Don't tell me you were really happy with them--I know you weren't. Stop editing the past. Stop revisiting the past. Stop wanting. Stop whining.

Shh.

Stop.