Like a Scab for an Extra Rub of Scrip, 2025
- Oct 25, 2025
- 2 min read
Updated: Feb 22
I keep thinking love is a job I forgot to quit
clocking in with a broken watch
and a card with more holes than paper to punch
calling it devotion
You didn’t love me back
you stood there while I emptied myself
like that was the point
like that was the show
ta-da!
I didn’t fight you when you hit me
I remember thinking
this must be what calm looks like
a man standing still while weather happens to him
I am a tired excuse
for me still apologizing
for bleeding in the wrong place
for making a mess of your evening
What kind of man learns how to disappear
and calls it commitment just because you know very well
how to spend money and I'm slick with making it
You were always asking
and I was always answering
until the questions ate the room
and the answers ran out
I called it patience because patience sounds holy
and being used sounds like a failure and I was trying not to fail
But you never liked the gallery
never liked the thing that made me breathe
said it took too much of me
as if I wasn’t allowed to belong anywhere but at your feet
I worked for you without wages without praise without even the dignity of being fired
the illusion that endurance was intimacy
I became the caretaker
and caretakers don’t get loved
they get used correctly
or replaced with another man to speak with while the caretaker worked
And now I don’t know
if I’d recognize love
if it didn’t hurt
if it didn’t ask me to prove myself with bruises
and quiet
thinking love should feel familiar
even when familiar means harm
I walked away
not because I was strong
but because there was nothing left to give you and nothing left to keep me there
Now it’s just me and this strange relief
this sadness that doesn’t lie
this silence that doesn’t hit back
I want love that doesn’t need my disappearance to function
I want love that doesn’t clock my hours or measure my usefulness or resent my aliveness
I just know I’m done going underground like a scab for an extra rub of scrip.