rough draft.

Newsflash: I don't actually care how she is. When I ask, it's because I'm being bitter and cynical and horrible.

I try to stick my fingers into the wounds of our relationship. I try to rip it apart and make it hurt. I try to pry it open, make it bleed, so that I know there's something inside. I want to know you know the reasons we fell apart.
I didn't know if there was anything inside the nutshell, and after prying it open (with no resistance), it still appears empty.

My hands are all covered in disgustingness. My fingers are sticky from digging around inside the wound. There was no use trying to pull out whatever wrench got thrown into our gears.
I now see that my hand is on my ribcage, and there is absolutely no thorn in your side.

My words fall on deaf ears every time. Even this analogy won't make anything inside you wake up.
Even this won't get the wrench out, won't mend the broken shell, won't stitch up the wound and let it begin to heal.
There is no wound. Only us both in the dark, with you standing still, and me running around trying to find the lightswitch, running into every table, chair, and wall in the room.