I pick it up and I can’t help but feel this enamored pain that reaches beneath my soul and scratches within my skin telling me that I’m not good enough and that’s why this stupid little metal box is so heavy in my hand and that’s why he hasn’t texted, called , snapped or anything’d me…
I give up and let my phone win too afraid to pick it up to afraid to answer to afraid to look at it. I decide to live a life of a technophobe because your response terrifies me to the point of self-disassociation and physical paranoia no human should feel you’re like a God to me .
Your love and will drives me to do things that shouldn’t be normal my morals they sway on your whims, like a cobra bound to its masters every melodic tune change. “Why do you play me? Am I so gullible and stupid that I ask for it?” I want to ask you but too afraid to demand the question because you weigh too heavily over me.
“What is it…you want from me?” I cry over and over but no words can be mustered out
When did this life I live stop belonging to me I can hear my self-screaming in my head. My bare brutal skin staring back at me scares me to repent like the virgins washing them self’s by the lakes before their entrance into heaven if there is such a place for me. I wash and scrub as if you will want me as if you will call as if this will change what you’ve done what they’ve done what they’ve said.
Not good enough…not good enough…like a choir singing at the gates of Hell they tell me my fate and lately I’ve been feeling tired of fighting this brutal battle.
It’s one thing when you’ve fallen for someone who’s got a god complex and believes that all his subjects must fall into a specific feature so you begin to cut and cut until there’s nothing left.