I don’t want to be something someone asks you about just because they don’t know any other conversation-starters.
I don’t want to be the last drag of your cigarette only for you to say “Oh well I’ll just light another one.”
I don’t want to be a suicide note you read over and over again trying to understand why you never understood me.
I don’t want to be the symbol behind your sorrow, I don’t want to be the last lilac sitting in a vase on your kitchen table watching you try to keep it alive.
I don’t want to be that song you listen to over and over trying to recreate something that you never even experienced to begin with.
I don’t want to be that picture you keep above your bed, I don’t want to be the half-eaten meal you fed to the dogs instead.
I don’t want to be compared to that thing that is killing you that I can’t control. But I am. I am. I am.
I’m sorry.