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When I’m sobbing from the consequences of my poor health or recoiling from a verbal snap, alone, in the dark, on the bathroom floor, outside. Alone. Loneliness takes the opportunity to attack and remind me that no one in this life has loved me enough to not be tired. Because isn't that what it all is? You're just too tired. And I am damned to a life of loneliness, of a love weak to exhaustion. It’s the only love I will ever be intimate with. Not because I don’t know of a better one but because I can’t settle for anyone else but you.
And it’s not your fault, I think I’ll live this life being loved by the person who loves me the most but not enough to not be tired. I think about how much I could’ve been saved if exhaustion wasn’t some life experience disguised as a necessary evil. Even for the people who love me the most, it is only saved when not compared to the potential of being loved more.
Loneliness, my wisp friend, leads me to this depth of thought. Who loves me the most? Do my parents love me? How could they not, they're just tired.