In those moments of great despair,
I often wonder here and there,
Just how often she tends to care,
Wether or not I'm really there.
Or does she fabricate just so,
We collaborate to and fro,
On what would make her worries go,
Out the window; to and fro.
Does she care for me at all,
To give my tired form a call,
And speak to me with wondrous gall,
Does she care? I tend to call.
And honestly I cannot tell,
If she is casting there a spell,
In that moment to make me well,
By faking there a panicked spell.
But every night or some such time,
She calls on me to ease her mind,
And soothe her soul with words sublime,
She calls on me; every time.
So then I wonder if it's true,
Or just a carefully crafted ruse,
To connect with her anew,
In the context of a ruse.

5 hours into day,
5 hours restless and awake,
5 hours be the length,
By which thy mood is tested.

If by 5 hours you grow weary,
Then the day shall drag,
Dreadful, dreary,
Let there be no mistake.

The stakes of the day,
Are easy to misplace,
To ask time to wait,
Is a laughable thing.

Yet still we say,
Why not do tomorrow,
In exchange for this day?
And our restless souls turn.

Filled with dread for tomorrow,
As we never learn,
That 5 hours in,
We start again.

In all honesty,
I wish you would stop trying to sell me on the idea of emotional need.
Every time we have met, I have given of myself so freely that your name could take up chapters in my autobiography. I have listened to your hopes, desires, and dreams so well, that you think of me, before saying I do to someone else at the altar. As if that consolation prize doesn’t make a mockery of the entire idea.

You perpetuate this need for emotional support and intimacy, but strike at my vulnerability with disgust, envious of a more steady foundation. I have listened to you share volumes of information that would make heads and heels turn and leave burning trails of dust behind them, I have given advice and guidance strong enough to calm the attack from anxiety and stem the tide of depression, as you cried your heart out.

And for all of this, I do not believe I am owed much.

I only ask that you stop selling me on the lie,
that emotional honesty is the missing ingredient to love, because I can stand being lied to, but I need you to stop using the words as a crutch,
if you have no respect for their meaning.