Mould

I haven’t gotten over him, because I don’t want to. Life seems better tortured, if it’s tortured by the possibility of him. 

What a fucking idiot I’ve become. 

How many possibilities for a respectful, loving, satisfying relationship have I turned away from in the past three years because they didn’t look, smell or feel like us? 

How did the push-pull between him and I become the mould that something new must fit or be cast away? 

And, most importantly, how do I fix my heart so it’s open to other shapes that aren’t him? 

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