Live and laugh, broken people.
Your heart is yours to play with.
And I mean nothing,
Hurts more than the sting
Of misery that tingles
Across one's neck
Where the breath of your loved one Should be.
Long distance is not so much about miles. You could be on the wrong side of the bed, darling boy, and I would be consumed by this lonely ache.
The weight of a dead soul has settled above my chest, as though it was trying to crawl out of the cavity.
It gave everything it had, and yet it was not enough to release it.
And now it lies still, invisible to the naked eye but rotting when I close my eyes.
I'm not asking you to understand why I don't want you to use this word to describe me. I'm asking you to refrain from doing so because it makes me feel like I'm getting in the car to go and find her again. Its reminding me of when I found her standing waist deep in a river crying because Michael said he wanted to die. Or when I helped her break up with her boyfriend because every time she'd tried to before, he'd grabbed a razor. Or crying in France because I needed her to take care of me for once. Or when he jumped on his computer because we borrowed it. Or when her parents shouted at each other. Or when she ran away.
I give up.
I am a catalyst of discomfort and yet I am asked to stay.
Please just hate me, it'd be easier for all of us.
Loving me is inefficient.
Listening to me is inefficient.
Is there anything about me that's worth your time?