Don’t you understand? It spreads. It all spreads. Your head-poison becomes mine and I’ve already had you tell me you’re going to bite the bullet, swallow that pill, at least 3 times now. And every single time you always say the same thing. You stay because of me. Because despite all the bad, I just seem to persevere and you think that’s incredible. Well what if I told you that every emotion you’re feeling right now is something I’ve already felt? The pity, the uselessness, The entrapment, the self-loathing, the hatred. And I was so young...you don’t understand, I’ve already been there, and I’m still here. Now I’m not saying I don’t have scars. I do. I’ve told people several times that I’m supposed to be a counselor or a therapist professionally, but something pulls me away from that. It’s you. Under a different name, a different face, but it’s always still you. You keep trying to bite that bullet and expecting me to pull it out. But it leaves a wound that oozes your particular brand of head-poison, and I can only come in contact with that so many times before I start feeling the effects.

But my biggest fear is that I will do that to someone else. Leave them a part of me that weighs them down forever. One of my friends recently developed anxiety you know? And I suspect in no small part thanks to me. Judging, criticizing, because I can’t handle meeting you again. Another one needs to talk, but understands the way the poison spreads, and refuses to give me more. I don’t know what I can do. I want to help. If anyone, I want to help them most of all, but they refuse. And it’s all because you didn’t understand when to stop. Now someone who actually needs my help refuses to get it because they see the mark you’ve left over the years.