Do not expect me to mend your cuts while I lie here bleeding out. I've played your crying shoulder long enough! When is it my turn to cry? I've heard all about your life, can I simply tell you about my day without interruption?
I am more than a bed for the night. More than a number in a phone. More than a shoulder to lean on. More than a sweater to keep you warm. There is blood in my veins. A beating heart behind its cage. A soul hidden beneath bones. I am more than tissue to be thrown out. You can't recycle me, though I breakdown quite easily.
Your words don't die when they jump from your tongue. No. They live forever inside of my mind. I haven't forgotten the secrets you whispered to me dead in the night. Do you remember mine? Or did I swallow them down when you neglected to ask? Did I cover up my scars, not for coldness, but for the obvious sense that their stories were unwanted? Can you remember how I looked that night? The moon shined so brightly on the both of us, though I recollect a shadow casting over myself.
This world is too big for you and I to always end up in the same room. Chapters begun always come to some sort of end. Stars burn out. Even the writings of sharpies fade away.
I can't be your shoulder any longer. I refuse to hand you even the simplest of bandaids. Don't extend your hand to me and ask for even a crumb of my bread-- don't you understand that I already gave you the rest of the loaf?
This one-way street has reached its conclusion. The ride was bumpy and on occasion the view was quite lovely. But as you can see there is no longer anywhere left for us to journey.
Farewell. I hope your cuts make beautiful scars. But I will not be there to hear their stories.