I just need you to sit there as I talk. Not just about you but, everything.
I’m fully aware that that’s too much to ask. We know I’m demanding.
I keep trying. But I just don’t know if that’s something you want.
Tell me to stop and I will. I won’t ever fucking look back.
You need to give me some sort of sign, though.
I’m terribly sorry that this is hard on you.
I am awfully difficult. Again, sorry.
You know this is about you.
If you still check on me.
— And I promise myself that this will be the last post ever about you, unless things get “better.” I super pinky promise myself. Gosh, “frailty, thy name is woman” really does ring true for me. Whore. Ugh, why am I so dreadful.
