¿Is this love?

I used to love the high of broken limbs cuts and scars,

The smell of the cigarettes I never smoked forever lingering when I rub my thighs,

How I still feel the shard from the broken mirror I used to navigate the underneath of my ribs like a star map,

My therapist says I don’t love the feeling of pain but that of being alive,

And it wasn’t until I was flung off the boat,

When my lungs filled with water and sweet bliss turned to panic,

The unrelating current never stopping when it had gone to far,

That I realized maybe I didn’t want to die