Here

I practiced breaking my own heart,
I thought it might be easier if and when it happened,

but then grief astounds us,
as always,
unraveling inside,
peeling away slowly at our innards,
until we have nothing left but the skeletal remains of nostalgia,

I got good and tired of being tired,
and pain was not as refreshing as it used to be,
but then again,
neither was happiness,

somewhere in the middle,
here in limbo,
was where I would find myself at night,
unsettled with being settled,
somewhat irked by the lack of familiarity with goodness,

They once said I was selfish,
and selfless,
all in the same breath,

I was no such thing,

I was alone.