I feel like I'm a scavenger, picking up pieces and riding on coattails. I have broken shards of you lining my pockets, I stick my hands in sharp edges to remind me to feel. And this is what I live on. Gleaning just enough from smiles across hallways, fleeting grazes. Surviving, just barely.
The though of this (you, me, us, we) being forever the way it is makes me sick. It wakes me up when I thought I was awake already, pushing my eyes uncomfortably open. I want to done, with you, with this.
I understand what you meant when you said you can't help it.
You are not the best person I've ever met. I could list every terrible awful thing you've done to my knowledge--I probably have, in fact, in some attempt to regain my sanity. I get words of caution and pitying looks every time I say your name because they know the danger of you. I know as well: you tumble out of my mouth like sand, like marble and I let it. I let you fill me up beyond my limit and push me.
I guess this is to remind me of stasis; maybe I'll break something and have to put it back together. I doubt it will be you, nor do I think you'll notice if it was. This is pathetic and sickening. and we are less than human. All I want is to be seen by the right pair of eyes.