You smirk as I tell you (I hold up my thumb and index fingers micrometers from one another to provide a visual reference ) that you make me feel "this" big.
I shrink further.

I. Being such a
small.
weak.
petty.
insignificant.
pathetic excuse for a man
struggle beneath the weight of your constant requests... -no-

demands:
"I'm hungry."
"I need a cigarette."
"Get your hands off me."
"I'm bored... let's do something."

I ******* adore you. I worship you. You are an ocean and I am merely a single grain of sand. I pray to God that he make me the ME that would YOU would appreciate most. I say

"Anything for you baby."

This one-sided tail-chasing brain **** of a relationship is so twisted that even when I satisfy your demands, I keep shrinking... evident I prove weakness- not worth.

"Can I have another cigarette?"
This is the last thing you say to me before i drive away.  
"I love you",  I silently narrate as I hand you a smoke.

No.
You know what?
*******.

I hope this is the cigarette that causes cancer.
I hope you drop this cigarette while you're driving and swerve into the oncoming lane; searching for it as it burns your ******* gorgeous, flawless legs.
I hope you fall asleep with it lit and I hope it burns you up; leaving your chair and clothes intact (a curious occurrence called the "wicking" effect). I will spread whispered rumors that it was spontaneous combustion... so that others too might see you as this rare and unique and sorrowfully amazing phenomena that I know you to be.

As I drive off, I continue shrinking until
I.
This:
Small.
Petty.
Weak.
Insignificant.
Pathetic excuse for a man is just a single grain of sand on some shore of a beautiful ocean who could give a **** less.

Me sitting in a chair with my usual poor posture
-we'll call this rest.

Behind me, a beautiful white ****** canvas
-we'll call this potential.

A shotgun loaded with paintbrushes
-we'll call this the medium.

Barrel in my mouth, the trigger clicks, then
  BOOM   
-we'll call this expression.

Look past my limp soulless body to the now finished canvas. What do you think?
-we'll call this interpretation.

The reds are deep and the blues are true; little chunks of grey matter
-we'll call this promise.

However, it all dries black in the end    
-we'll call this accurate.  

Me still alive in my chair staring at the wall. Pen in my mouth. Ink in my teeth
-we'll call this gnashing insignificance.