“we’re far too similar to function, together, that is” you say. i take this incredibly personally, not because i can’t fathom the idea of never carrying you in my locket, i came to terms with that a long time ago, you would rust the metal anyhow, but because i would have a lot more humanity if i were ever standing in your purple shoes. If I am your mirror, the mirror is shattered, and we both have blood on our hands. I’ll affirm your self assuring lies, it will never happen again, and you can blubber crocodile tears all you’d like but I know I am of no importance to you, in the long run. I am exhausted, i’ve been playing our sickening game for almost 2 years now, following your sparring trail of breadcrumbs is proving to be a fruitless endeavor, and christ am I starving for a full loaf of bread. I am a fun wooden toy, a source of visual and creative validation, my attraction to you cuts deep live a shiv, you started burrowing the blade into my skin the day we met and we’ve been intrinsically linked ever since. Blood trickles out of the engraving of your initials above my left breast. My sweater carries a crimson stain. You lurk at the bottom of my stomach like a parasite and reappear whenever you’re weary and companionless. I’ll never be your muse but you get off on the validation of being mine. I write my petty epitaphs as companion pieces to yours, imagine how foolish i feel when i figure out your prose were never about me in the first place.
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