I’m sorry. I can’t do it anymore. I cannot bridge the gulf between the vast and endless ocean that is this need. Not that it’s anything I’ve ever accomplished in the past. Maybe it’s just that I thought you wanted me to. But you say you don’t know what you need. Let me tell you, I’m so fucking sick of hearing that.
I’m so tired of hearing that you don’t know what you need and seeing you take and take and take what you want. Like a parasite, like the ache deep between your legs that can’t be satisfied. I want to shun you. I want to bury you so deep I forget I ever knew you.
I will admit, readily, that I am disillusioned. Hurt. I let myself believe in you. I let myself believe you gave a shit. Like I was important to you. But I can see now that I only fit in to your plans when I’m convenient. When there’s something you want out of me. When your need cannot be filled by the people who are *better than me*. By the people who aren’t me.
You know what the worst part it? It’s not about me. It’s not about me. Of course it’s not about me. This is all about you. The way you ask for the sun and the stars and then take the whole goddamned milky way. And you don’t stop there. You take Saturn and Jupiter with their moons and rings. You take Mars and Neptune and Pluto (you don’t even care that it’s not a planet any more). You take Uranus and you take Mercury, quicksilver and laughing. And then, you take Venus, and string her up by her ankles and tease.
I’ve seen you flaunt yourself to her, to anyone who’ll watch, touch, taste. But when they can’t fill your cavernous soul, you play at introspection and move on to the next one. You let your fear of letting anyone know you show, and in your wake, floating husks of the hearts that used to care.
I don’t even want to remember the good times. I want to sink down, down, down and let the ocean wash over me, lapping wave by lapping wave, covering me deeper.
This is the only way I can get away from your need. I have to let it consume me. You have burned over me and you have burned through me and you have left nothing but a thin isthmus of ash. Each puff of wind scatters me thinner and thinner.