In the dim light of street lamps

It used to be grief, as I laid covered by a blanket and the heavy feeling of despair, letting the pain drip slowly from my eyes.
I missed you so much, my heart clenched every time I thought of you.
I couldn't escape the memories of how it used to be, how we all used to be, and, to some degree, I still can't.
I thought of the past, resenting the present, and the future, and some of the past, too.
It felt like the ghosts of you, or, rather, the twisted memories of what you once were, appeared right in front of me for one last time, grasping desperately at my heart and intestines, as if it was the only thing capable of keeping you with me for just a moment longer.
I imagine that's what I always did and always will do, lounge my claws into whoever I come to become friends with, not wanting to ever let go, even if it hurts said person and will inevitably fail, leaving me alone and the other with sharp claw marks on them.
I wouldn't know, no one ever left even a tiniest scratch on my body.

Now it is just hurt and emptiness.
I still lay in the very same bed, same blanket on me, only now cuddled into my curled-up form.
I no longer am capable of tears, they are there, somewhere deep behind the mask, building up, yet failing to spill.
I don't think of you anymore, at least not on purpose, and when I do, it doesn't hurt so greatly.
Perhaps its because enough time has passed and my brain has already managed to cover the memories with a thick and cloudy layer of mist, the scrolls with all the days we have spent together written down in them having collected dust in the old and breaking down basement, that is my mind.
The upper floors of the house threaten to fall onto it, crushing all that's remaining inside, yet the old room only knows the fire pit that has been burning in its middle for all eternity and will remain there for the rest of it.
The flames swallow fragile paper fast and noticeably, yet every single little piece that is later recovered with great effort is celebrated festively.
I now have grown to resent everyone and everything around me.
I don't wish to escape into the familiarity of the past times, rather just stop existing.
The young but faultily built house awaitens its destruction, yearning for the moment a wrecking ball hits and the spirits trapped inside get to escape to the sky, settling somewhere in between the stars.
They will end up sticking out, the view far too beautiful for them to fit into, as if they were those stick-on glow-in-the-dark stars one might find on the celling of a child's room, only now placed on the night sky, nothing to compare to the breathtaking cosmos.
Yet then it won't matter.
They will be free and that's all that will ever count.