Play it again. Very many, very many, none at all. We’ll make it work this time. This relationship is a broken toy. More disjointed than broken. Glue the drumsticks back on the soldier’s hands. It can amuse you once more. Put some effort into what you love. Direct your thoughts with authority. But, I don’t know if I can.
I am softened by my depression, which returned when I accepted Robert’s apology. Hope is frozen under the ice. Nothing but the hand of habit hungers after this relationship. I seek liberation from this love affair. It is a toxic liquid. It is acid burning up my skin. Skeletal frame partially exposed. I am a morbid curiosity. My days are not pages filled with sights seen, experiences that mold character, and dreams fulfilled. My days have become a short paragraph, written out of a desperate necessity to feel I can be my own, to drive out obsession, to have something to do.