Im running out of time. To write for you, to express for you. To create art in the shades of your breath and expression.
I am consistent nervousness; constantly unsure within my own footing.
I swallow against the rising bile like a tide in my stomach as I write, and write, and starve and lose all sensibility in trying to fill every gap with you, you, you.
And you? Oh, you do not recognize me I am sure. I am depraved. Monstrous.
My stomach aches, twists, knots when I am alone and solitary in the drowning feeling of raw emotion.
When I am awake, it’s dry and chapped like a beached animal on hot sand. It burns, and I cannot wet it. I cannot whet it.
I write, and write and write to stave you off like a disease, but it festers and I know it shall consume me.
Every word is another injection when I should be withdrawing. But I cannot withdraw from you. Not until my--