For your own good

I told you I would. Already those familiar feelings coming. Why don't you get it? I can't expect you to understand right away, but still I can't stand you because you don't. Why I'm listening to sad songs even though a little river is coursing down my cheek, why I keep reading the same story over again because it makes them flow harder. Why don't you understand? I don't myself, but why can't you? I need someone to. There's only one person who can, why can't you be them? I need someone, right now, to be here and get it. I want it to be just like that night again where I cried for no reason, or just because I was so damn tired, and someone just held me in their arms until I feel asleep. It felt so good to be like that, what I wouldn't give to be in love again. I don't even want them anymore, I just want to feel that way. Why does it feel like I never will again? I can't imagine it with anyone else. Why do I need to be in love? Why does this limbo hurt so much? Why am I helping myself cry? I want to make love to someone again and hold them afterwards, and for it to mean something to us both, because it's us. Why do I know already that it won't be you?

Daddy

Just sitting by the window. Staring out. I know you can only come from one direction but like in any movie, where logic doesn't count, I look both ways. A car comes past every minute or so, with enough space in between so you can actually hear their engines coming down the road. Each time that noise resounds through the paper-house walls I leap off the sofa and press my nose to the grime. My face looks like it's been pressed into the dead ground outside, by now. I haven't looked at the clock. I don't want to see how late you are. This way, the time is only passing in my head.

Another rumble, another leap, another milimetre of dirt added to the collection on the tip of my nose. Your nose, or so I'm told. At least recently. There's a break in the traffic. I wait for another rumble, the engine grinding within the case, the tyres crunching on the asphalt. The only noise is the void ringing in my ears. Silent white noise. And the slow ticking of the clock that I can't bring myself to look at. The scrap of paper in my hand is the only clue to you. I unfold it, minding the tears that run through it, this mangled scrap that has seen the palm of my hand, the space under my pillow, the hollow of my jewellery box. It feels so smooth under my fingers, worn to its fibres. These few numbers, fainter now than ever, I punch into the keypad and wait, my finger poised over the screen so I cannot see the hour. I wait, the ringing droning into my head. Ring. Ring. R- a click and a sob. One I hear. One, I can only assume that you do, as what I can only assume is your voice rings out.