on wounds, metaphorical ones

not having you in my life is like i got my pointer finger cut off.

at first, the wound bled for days on end. i filled it with gauze and tape and eventually, it stopped.

as the weeks have passed, i’ve learnt to move around it. i’ve adjusted myself. sometimes, it's like i never had one. i don't notice its absence.

but sometimes i go hold something with my pointer and my thumb, and i can't, and it hits all at once that it's gone. and it bleeds again. and i can't stop the bleeding. and i can't stop crying.

but then i pack the wound again. and i keep going. i keep going.

fingers don’t grow back, i have to tell myself. you’ll have to live like this, i tell myself.

someday i’ll accept that my finger wont grow back. someday i’ll accept that you won't talk to me again.

but for now, i’ll pack the wound when it bleeds.

the metaphor doesn't fit a hundred percent. but i don't care. i'm hurt, and that comes across.