I must have had a 'perishable' sticker on my heart when you came along. We are all just dates to best be used by, or, at least, that's what I told myself while you consumed me. I love the way you consume me, in the physical sense that your very presence engulfs my own in a way that makes me nothing more than a piece of meat grinding between your jaws. My insignificance is so significant to you that you tell me about it often, and I never hear the end of of it. I never want to hear the end of it because I think I love you but I only think I do because I never watched my parents love at all, so I can only assume. I want to break lines and talk about you in a cliche way, but you are too much of a run-on sentence for that and the line breaks make me think of my spine under your hands and I can't go back to that. The walls are calling again but this time, I can't bring myself to answer.

Treat me like your favorite sweater. Give me a use and make me stick to it. I know you only want me during certain periods of time, but maybe the rare last minute occasion will come and you'll use me. Put holes in me and pull my threads. I'll go with everything, blend in, keep you warm, make you feel safe. Spill hot coffee on me and throw me in the hamper. Toss me under the bed, but frantically look for me when the occasion comes and you need me because there isn't anybody else. Bury your face into me and breathe. Eventually I'll become too tainted for outside use. I'll sit in your room for days, weeks, months. Then spring will roll around. Throw me in a bag and toss me away. I've accomplished my purpose. You don't need me around anymore.

There are gargoyles where your eyes should be. I know that even if there is water flowing from those grotesque trenches, you promised me that you would keep the demons from inside of you, when you were the demon the whole time.
  I have lain at your feet like a bear pelt rug and felt your toes curl into me while you read your favorite book. I have seen all of your dark ways and I have felt every cigarette you put on me in the form of your mouth. You linger in the back of my throat like a violent coughing spell, and I think I loved the burning sensation, and there is no doubt in my mind that when you slam the door I wish it was my body you were shoving into the doorjam.
  If you turn off the lights and you find that you can still see me vividly, you should remember that I know every crease in your feet and every corner of your mouth. I don't easily forget the people I have dropped to my knees for. You are every piece of paper I have ripped into shreds on your honor and strewn across the room like our clothes. Now my heart doesn't feel so good in your hands, does it?