Damn me and my punk clothing
i can't remember the last time someone put their hand on my thigh--only to keep me from falling out of Lita as i pulled the door shut--and you have no idea how close you came to really touching. and why am i writing to you? but i can't remember the last time i almost felt.......so close to fully realizing palm on thigh. and i'm glad i grasped at your hand when i did--rubbing your thumb across your ring on my finger--because it becomes too late too soon. and i don't want your hand on my arm because it hurts and all the little things rip apart because you love her.......because the world loves her and i love her too. but i am nothing with out her--i am nothing beside her.
they say "go home." and they say "you're not what we want." And they offer to dig your grave--to make it painless as they can. and it all fails because this is the real pain that comes from caring and it lasts too long and the pain you're craving so bad is gone. and something in me broke past the point of curling myself--so small and useless--at the bottom corner of my bed and crying. nothing works right anymore. the only thing that comes is the blood.
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