i’m scared
of losing you,
of becoming you,
of not being able to help you,
but i don’t know what to do.
every time you come to me
for help
and for comfort.
but i’m not good at help.
and i’m not comforting
in the slightest.
i’m not mad at you;
i’d be mad at me,
but i wish that sometimes i had
a say in the
terrible
terrible
terrible
talks that we
endure.
