I'm a tasteful blend of obsessive compulsive disorder and quirks. I'm ecletic and irrational. I push mystel and others to the limit, just for future reference. I feign interest and exaggerate my emotions. I'm prone to being harassed and psychologically dismantled. I have a hard time picking favorites because in reality I like almost everything. I put others ahead of myself just because I hope someday they'll do the same for me. I snap my fingers when I'm scared, and click my pens when I'm nervous. My eyes give me away. I write letters to random houses, hoping to brighten the days of the people who live there. I've probably ruined every organ in my body by now. I write all over everything I can find, when I don't have a keyboard or a piece of paper near me. My red string broke the other day, I've never felt better. I circled around, and around, and around. So don't act like you know me, don't act like you understand me. I know you never believe me. But I had time to get to know myself, even if you couldn't find any.

Lighting fires, sparking flames.

I don’t care if you stick by your guns, they’re still aimed at my head. That’s a cruel way to play. I didn’t even get to keep my sanity, you took everything but material possessions. I wanted to hide you from the cold, I wanted to shield you from the rain. I saved the conversations I couldn’t bear to read. And when I think back to when it was your lips against my neck instead of a knife, I wonder what led me here. When I think back, my body aches. I had the wrong cards, so much is certain. I let myself be the prey. I was transparent in my wishes, and like a business man you capitalized upon them. So last night, I don’t know what happened. The official story is a tale of broken gear. But you were stuck on the reel and I couldn’t pull forward. So a brace or two and a bloody scene on a dimly lit trail is what we had come to. Not just the distance, or the seemingly irreparable condition.

I wasn’t what was expected, pleasant but unnecessary. There’s truth in there if you care to find it.

I refuse to let myself crumble, I’m not as big as the Roman Empire, or as small as an atom. I’m between good and evil, what you left and what is right. I stopped counting my steps, because I circle back to the number of times I’ve thought of you. This shouldn’t have to hurt. No longer a pain, a tearing, a pulling. A boiling, searing sadness has taken over. A dry sorrow, a melodic phrase. And now I am searching for the words to say to you, in case you want to step out of fast forward. In weeks, I’ve aged years.

You’re always crashing. I won’t pretend to be alright with the things you do, but who am I to stop you.