he gives a piece of himself

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He gives a piece of himself in his tea, sipping it and hating it, tasting it and spitting it. It's a lovely color with a bittersweet tinge, and he hates it, hates it, hates it, hates it like he has never hated anything as much as this before. It's gone lukewarm, or maybe it's he who's gone numb, but either way it feels like nothing and perhaps that's at least something - something to look up to, to give hope to, to push him forward, forward, always forward, don't look back because you'll drown, Andrew, you'll drown.

He gives a piece of himself in his morning toast, coated with sugar and spice and everything nice - the exact opposite of his sad, miserable soul that decays with every bite, chew, crunch, chew, crunch. He hopes it'll balance him out like yin does to yang and white does to black, but he has always been a greyscale and no amount of lovely things shoved down his system can change that; not even if the toast serendipitously happens to be extra crispy and the butter extra fluffy. He has too much bad to counteract the good, and one day he swears he will save him from himself.

He gives a piece of himself in his out-of-tune humming, indistinct and off-key like everything else about him. His steps thump-thudump-thump-thump down the rackety staircase, and he tries his best to keep himself from going back up. It feels like a death march and it sorta-kinda-lika makes him want to crawl back into bed. He just wants to shiver in warm sheets and roast in the cold weather all the days of his life. But today he he decides he will carpe that freaking diem; he will brave every second of this day and it starts with getting out of this house.

He gives a piece of himself in his strides filled with purpose. He brisk walks down the winding roads of his one and only sleepy city, the one he's learned to hate - just like all things he first loved. Gradient skies greet him, half-opened stores stare at him, and drowsy persons trudge past him. He tries to see everything as endearingly beautiful instead of dreadfully dull, so he sifts his perspective and lets himself slow down. Inhale the love, Andrew. Then exhale the hate. Then rinse your thoughts, and repeat.

He gives a piece of himself in the way he pushes the heavy doors open, letting the battle begin right there and then. He has always loved a challenge, and when he throws his weight the oak doors creak in defeat. It feels like a victory and he does a little champion shimmy on the way in, because these small things suddenly become big things when your life is Andrew's life. He lets the tiny euphoria fuel him, taking it and magnifying it twice-fold into a wide grin and a loud "Good morning!" The new customers stare blankly, the old ones smile fondly, and his staff just shake their heads.

(He sees the grin they try so very hard to hide.)

He gives a piece of himself in the firm handshakes he gives, savoring the physical contact like a starving sailor. He craves the warmth of another soul because it anchors him, holds him, keeps him alive. It makes him feel every heartbeat and breath that circulates inside him, in and out, out and in. It helps him tell his greatest enemy that he is still the winner, the champion, the hero this very day, because he still exists and people still need him - so ha! Take that! (The greatest enemy is, of course, always his very self.) His thoughts must be showing because his manager Gil starts to look at him weirdly. He takes the opportunity to drag the man into a bear hug, and of course Gil complains - on the outside, that is, because he knows that in some ways Gil is just like him.

He gives a piece of himself in his neat cursive, on-purposefully deleting the past years of his life by ignoring the "A" and "N" of his given name. He lets the chalk do the talking as he writes the name of today's chef (himself), and he's not so sure if he misses or hates the apron he ties around his waist. He is just half a person now; half of who he used to be and half of who he soon will be. He hangs the chalk board he's written right over the open counter, and it swings there like a noose coiling tighter and tighter. Careful, Drew, or else you'll choke.

(Maybe now people will love Drew the way they unloved Andrew: Quite suddenly and all at once.)

He gives a piece of himself in the breath he takes. He calms himself down, because today is a new day and he will be hella brave.

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Author's Note:

So this is extremely short and I'm sorry about that but real life has been crazy and I just really wanted to at least get this out there to let everyone know I am still alive and breathing.

Also this is kinda half prose half poetry (prosetry???) and will just be short snippets of Drew's life in whatever order. Interpret as you will.

Love you all, let me know what you think as always. Hopefully this isn't too bad *cringe*

x chloe

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