A Conversation

A Conversation…
He tells me he loves me, but how can someone so innocent love a dying thing like this. I tried to explain to him the complexity of my mind, but my mind is a tongue twisted disease that infest the rest of my body. Like a rat inside a maze, I am trapped here. I tell him that a door frame is like acid dripping down my fingers, after the 600&66th time that I can’t walk away from it. I tell him that his love can not replace the moon's company, when insomnia sneaks in through the floorboards. But he doesn’t understand that when his mouth curves up & he laughs at the cracks and lines on floor, why I just can’t. He won’t get why I slide his voice every time. He ask me why I wash my hands after every door knob I touch, I tell him how I see a million germs seeping into my hands, until my body is the forgotten graveyard that nobody visits me at. He looks anywhere but at my face and tells me that he’s sorry, he didn’t know. But his pity is as hollow as the love I never had. And that his vacant knowledge was the reason that he was still here. He then tells me, “ communication is key”, but I know that he’s just quoting the dried out words from an internet page, training him how to speak. Teaching him what to say, when there is nothing else to say. I tell him that talking for me, is like watching a 2 second clip on repeat, until you finally fall asleep. And dangerously, he slips over a repulsive line, a question ; “ why can’t you just stop? “ I can’t. Even know as we sit here, my teeth come crashing down over themselves, my nails scratch though my skin like the self harm that nobody ever talks about, or for god sake, ever heard of. I tell him that I’ve almost gotten used to living this way, and he looked at me like he was dressed in black, staring at my open casket. Finally, he tells me, “ my love, everything will be okay.” And in that moment… I knew that we could never last.

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