As I lay here with my ear in between the cold ceramic tiles and my head,
I can finally let go of the fact that I never said:
You are a leech,
You are the loss of speech,
You are the pieces of broken glass one finds on the beach,
You are the hypocrisy,
That taught me not to **** where I eat,
You are the rug,
that clutches like quicksand,
Sinking its teeth into my feet,
Keeping me from moving forward,
And everything that has, is or ever will push me away from you,
Is a privilege and a favor.