I embody the bad vibe felt in a room; the heaviness on your chest. I am both the rock and the hard place.
This world is not made for me; I can do no right. My birth was an error, my death is inevitable.

I long to belong.

You have this scar on your right collarbone, about 4-5 inches long. Rods underneath help keep it intact, you can feel the screws if you run your fingers over it.
You said you broke it while skateboarding 6 years ago, I figure you tried to do some trick that felt right in that moment. A trick I would probably drool over, if I'm being honest.
Sometimes you get insecure when you notice me looking at it or touching it, and I don't understand why. It's pink hue reminds me of the sky at the perfect time of day, when it's not too hot or too cold outside.
I imagine you went through a lot of pain to acquire that piece. I hear that pain is beauty, and it's definitely more beautiful than any sunset I've seen.

Although I’m sure my presence is starting to become more than a little vexatious, I still hold your hand as often as I possibly can. Partially because I find how rough your hands are compared to the rest of your body to be very pleasing, but mostly because I feel obligated.
Don’t take it the wrong way, I don’t feel obligated in the sense that I’m being forced. I just know that we humans come into and leave this world alone, and I know all that you’ve seen.
So I’ll hold your hand while we lay in bed at night, cross the road, and walk through the grocery store, readjusting my grip as our fingers start slipping.
And when I notice you start slipping and losing your grip on this world and all it has too offer, I’ll readjust whatever it is that need readjusting. I’ll hold on even tighter so you don’t have to.
Just don’t give up. I know it’s hard, and I know you know that we humans come into and leave this world alone. But when I hold your hand, I have the entire world at my fingertips.

I’ll readjust as needed.