I had the worst dream about you last night.
I hope you're doing alright.
I wish I could ask
but that would cross
the uncrossable line.

Just know
I think about you all the time.

At what point is this
regular behavior
instead of just a funk?
Where is the line between
giving support
and being taken advantage of?

It's a sneaky addiction.
I think I'm fine, then
A few words spoken
and I'm down on my knees again.

I think I've evolved
but as it turns out
I'm the same little girl
desperate for love,
only willing to draw lines in the sand.
A wave of your words
can erase them.

Mold me into
whatever fits best with you.
I'll stay in position
'til the pain is unbearable.

Maybe longer.

I wish I had a friend
who would come and sit
who could listen to my stories
instead of talking a mile a minute
too consumed in her own drama
born from someone else's pain
to even hear me scream.

I'm walking towards
a thin red line.
The only thing
slowing me down
is there's
nowhere
to
hide.
All of the pain's on the surface.
Nothing to drown it out now.
I try to pull strands
to hold it together
they unravel from use
in my hands

broken legs
cannot stand

empty hearts
cannot pretend.

ever since the end
of the longest thing I've ever known
I can't help but find myself
looking around for clues,
little pieces of thread
that hint at an unwraveling.
If I learn not to pick at them
can I keep it all in tact?
Can I keep you close to me?

When you seperate our books
into 'yours' and 'mine' shelves
I'm wondering
if it's so they're easier to pack.
When I'm not home
are you going through our pen drawer
to make your own portable ink?
Creating divisions in your mind,
color-coded cabinets
you can quickly grab and leave?

I have to wonder
if you'll like the sober
version of me.
I wonder if I will.

But
the answer to the first question
is more important.
Because I'm stuck with me
and you aren't.