Monophobia: the fear of being alone.
Sometimes when I sleep in my bed, I think of where I would be if I didn't have a stranger lying next to me.
What I would be if I didn't seek comfort from every hand that reached out to me.
So many hands held bad intentions and so many hands held knives.
Knives that cut deeper than the surface.
The type of knives that draw blood.
However, I realized I wasn't whole the day a stranger I thought I could love drew a knife so deep into me and the color that came out was not red, but black.
Tar fills my veins.
Tar from all of the cigarettes I smoke after I leave an address I don't remember going to.
Tar from all of the dead bodies of loved ones I have lost.
My insides are black from trying to fill myself with temporary happiness.
If the happiness isn't permanent, then the temporary leaves stains.
Strangers leave stains all of the time of their body and secrets, but don't bother to clean them up.
You see we break people we don't know because we are unaware of how much they can take.
We never take the time to get to know someone before we are deep inside of them, but outside of their mind.
I left my heart at a stranger's house.
I went back the other day to ask for the pieces back since I didn't even bother to clean it up when it spilled all over their floor.