Am I so high maintenance that you feel it is better to shut me out when I am screaming for help? Or did your store of caring run dry, because you are killing me. Boy, I ask for simple things that were supposed to be easily given. The truth, your trust, your honesty, your love. Unconditional if you could give it. But I would take any love you could offer; any sweet words whispered in my ear to let me know that you are still here and not a figment of my imagination. The darkness, it rolls in on me sometimes, and it pulls me further under its murky depths the longer I struggle to keep my head above water. Screaming and gurgling in the rushing water, I reach my hand out hoping to grasp yours and find nothing but air. I can feel the arms of despair clutching at my legs, desperately trying to pull me into its final embrace. Where are you when I need you the most? The hand you so readily offered before has evanesced into a white mist quietly retracting into the everlasting night.
What is it about me that drew your eyes that first day we met? What made you stay? Made you say all those lovely things? Spend all those lovely nights, just the two of us, whispering promises as we lay in each other's arms? Why do you pull this all away now?
The only thought circling my mind is that it is all my fault. I dragged you in and pulled you too close when you wanted distance. Pace yourself, you said. I will come when I can but pace yourself, girl. But being the fool I am, your words went unhindered and I dove headfirst into what could have been eternity with the love of my life but has turned into Hell full of tears and broken promises.
Now you have left me behind as you venture out to find a more normal girl. One to keep you company and prevent you from wearing the smothering cloak of loneliness. We will still be friends, you promise. But I cannot be with you like this. I cannot be want you want, what you need. I am just not a strong enough man for you and you deserve so much better than what I can offer. Please understand...
My toes inch closer to the edge as a sharp wind blows passed, whipping my skirt into a fervent frenzy. I wonder if six stories would be high enough. But it is poetic for me to do it here, on the roof of the coffee shop where I first saw you and felt that spark. I can only pray my body lands correctly, my head makes contact with the cement below. I need this to end. If it fails, you won't even be there at my hospital bed, crying into my comatose form as you question why it had to be this way. What you could have done to change things and prove to me you were real. That our love was real. Because in the end, it was all a fantasy of my ever-lonely mind. The product of an over-active imagination too used to picturing and planning other people's supposed lives.
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