Pain

The physical pain dissolves the heartache like acid.
The blood washes me clean
Sweeps away my anger and my fear and my desolation.
But only for a time
A brief respite from this death of soul.
I am a shiny broken thing
Glittering shards of who I was
reflected in the tears.

I hate poetry, and I hate feeling this way. I love him, I need him, but it may be too late to tell him that. Why did it take us breaking up again, to r=make me realise how much I want him? Why does it take pain and hate and destruction to make me realise just what he means to me?
I must be fucking stupid.