Swore it was my last shot, promised it would be. It was the electric surge coursing through my conduits, a constant hum. I’ve been left alone, shadows have unfollowed me, but I’ve got 40 ounces that suggest I’ve done everything but bottle it up. My hair is falling out; I play a game, though I feel so ugly, I’m utterly defeated. I count the follicles, “she loves me… she loves me not,” with a sense of perverse pride. I dissect things logically, gladly picking them apart. Sadly, I find myself single-handedly pulling at the strings of your heart, stitching together compartments that house both fancy and fury. I live in this apartment, a shell of anger. I felt the shift in you when I put my fist through the door.
Sometimes, I listen to the pauses you take, the breaths, and the silences woven into every word, lost and adrift. I don’t really hear you, or even myself when I speak; it all seems to decay. I simply alter my demeanor and withdraw. It’s a constant struggle between me and my ego, a self-indulgent, heat-seeking endeavor. I’ve fallen in love with the unspoken nuances hidden beneath our masqueraded pretenses. I’ve lost count of the bridges I’ve burned along the way.