I hate this. I hate that I’m starting to feel selfish of whatever it is I still don’t have completely. I hate that you’re making me defy all that I’ve ever been. I hate the fact that I have this heavy feeling in my arms, a strained unkempt yearning in my breaths, this never-ending resonant sense of selfishness at the back of my head. I don’t think I want to know if I’m being selfish. I don’t want to be selfish. Not when it comes to you.
It streams from every cell in my bloodstream, your extreme distance eating away at me with every inch taken closer, your shared compliance persuading me to embrace ambivalence with every word spoken gentler. Oh how I hate contingence when every syllable of my name is thrown away to your most unvital recesses of memory. I don’t want to be selfish. I don’t know if I’m being selfish, but I just don’t want to be. Not when it comes to this.
Avarice lives at the bile rising up my throat. The intense warmth of unadulterated fury itching at every centimeter of my skin reflects it and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that I live in the fear of losing everything now when I still don’t have it back. I’m so sorry that I’m starting to feel selfish. The word I’ve been constantly repeating in this parchment is losing its meaning, shedding its point but I’d rather take that against the foreboding moment that I might have to ask myself, “What is the point of you?” But what is the point of you? Tell me because I’m blinded by cupidity, stupidity. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
I don’t mean to be selfish but I don’t want to lose everything yet. Not now. Not when it comes to you.
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