hermit in the city.

Some days, alone is better than anything else.
Free from you, free from them, free from society.
As much as you can ever be, at least.

We haven't even found a way to live for ourselves.
And so we beg, and borrow, and steal into each other.
Just for some hopeful breath to continue us.

Some days, I pray for nothing more than alone on my bed,
letting my thoughts become more than just scattered ideas
of jobs, of school, of love, of sex, of money, of what I need to do.
and then my unreality fails me, and I crawl into bed with you.

I miss torturing myself to feel something.
I miss living away from any others; a hermit in the middle of the city.
my eyes are wide open, trying to find a fixed point
so the world will maybe stop spinning.

And beyond all else, I resent you for turning me into this.
I can blame you for everything, because you became my core.
and even as I tell you a hundred times I love you,
the resentment is burning, and we have burnt away.
and so I flee.