Don’t you dare look at me as if you know me when I can’t even put my own finger on who I am or what I want.  And don’t you ever call yourself my friend until I’ve showed you the scars buried under my skin.  You can’t call yourself a lover until you’ve touched more than that very thing. And as I touch my body today it hurts, the bruises underneath my skin, they hurt. Pains that most people will never see. And I’m not talking some ******* metaphor it literally ******* hurts and I don’t understand what I did to deserve this, as I only banged my arm against the kitchen sink and everything else I could find three times. Exactly one, two, three times, each. And as I sit here in front of this old computer I look across the room at a once lovers best friend laughing as there probably isn’t a care in his wonderland he refuses to leave.
And when I think of you I remember your sad eyes always looking inward, pointed towards yourself, were strangely fixated on me and your soft lips were as flushed as your cheeks. You were looking at me not in some romantic way that you maybe wanted to kiss me; no I was pretty sure you were plotting our escape. I don’t know why you ever wanted to take me with you but you had that strange idea wrapped around your delusional little mind, going a little mad the only place I ran was towards you.  And as I wandered around in your house I got a little lost and I don’t think I ever was brave enough to leave you and come back home.