...

...but you don't give much back do you?
I would crunch my bones to be next to you in the middle of the night with stacks of papers and cups of coffee. I would sit, heavy-eyed, lose precious comatose, and watch you with such grace, but you're too busy freezing yourself in a tub of ice.

I like to pretend that I don't give a shit, but my stomach lurches and hops as the minutes go by and you don't call back. You said. You said you'd call, I'm waiting, call me, why won't you call back? Don't you know I'm a child waiting for Santa to come down the chimney? when really it turns out to be the tooth fairy and he rips out my molar with numb force. Please.

It's for you really, I decorate my arm with a precious red scrape. It's pretty this time. Long, rose red, it crosses the healing scars from before. You should see it. I did it to pop the balloon, to release the pressurized air beneath my skin that was formed by my swollen heart. You have a way of throwing blows at me without leaving a bruise....so I do it for you. I leave your mark since you're too sorry to do it yourself. I leave your mark because I feel like I love way too much, like I go way too far to make such a spoiled man. I feel like you don't give back much, but who wrote your paper on racism for Afro-American class? Who ordered expensive food the day you were stuck in doing chores? Who did those things? Who is bleeding now?

But really, I love you. I just don't know how much I believe you lately.