death of me.

i can buy you time while you try and pretend that your problems don't exist. i'm the perfect shiny new play thing to keep you entertained just long enough to forget about what's really on your mind. i can smile and make you laugh and for a moment you may even believe that it was me you have been looking for all along.

but she'll send you a text, you know. something real generic at first. "can you pick up the dog?" you know. your child. and you can pretend that you're not fooled into thinking it's really all about the dog, or whatever. but now you're thinking about her. again. i can see the panic you try to push back behind your eyes. the impending implosion of all things beautiful for all your shit that's so painfully real. it's ugly and it's foul but it's all you've ever known and my kind words, my understanding... the smell of my shampoo, my tattoos... are all so foreign. so uncertain. i am but a mystery, always, never getting close enough; never staying far enough away. and so you go back, fall back into what's easiest for you; what you've known for so long to be the only thing to ever be true and constant in your life. because your afraid.

and trust me, i understand fear. but you are weak and i am tired. it is exhausting to live with the notion...the theory, as it has yet to be proven wrong, that all you will ever be is a distraction. a resting place. something you "needed". and thank you. what if the only purpose of your life is to be - ONLY - for the purpose of others. i will grow old, and alone, and all those who have known me will speak kindly about my genuine sympathy for others. how much i could care and how hard i could love.

just once, i would like to be loved. violently.