Pickles and Peanut Butter

Your words are sharp
They make me want to bleed,
Physically,
But I hate thinking about that;
Pain isn't something I associate myself with.
Avoidance is my technique;
I don't make eye contact
With the pain I feel inside.
Sometimes I do that with you;
I don't make eye contact.
It makes me feel better,
Gives me time to cool off.
Ignoring bad things
Doesn't really make them go away,
But I push as hard as I can
(Brush them under a rug,
Push them into a dark, black corner
Where I can't see them anymore
And they can't hurt me.
Directly, anyway).
Now I think these words are loose.
They don't belong together,
Like pickles and peanut butter,
But I push as hard as I can,
Forcing them to stay on the page,
Forcing them to get along.
Why do I still try?