Personally, I’m fed up with seeing that hand empty. I used to draw your name on the palm of it with my thumb but I don’t think you noticed. I blame cinema.
You don’t have to feel the awful way you do but you’re a sick patient denying the cure. You’re a one in a million case and I don’t feel like sifting through that many medical records. I have the elixir but you’re addicted to the disease.
One of these days I’ll be a few thousand miles away and every clear thought you never had could come crashing through the roof of your indecision. It hurts to think I may not witness the clarity. I keep praying that it happens sooner, but we’ve all seen by now that praying doesn’t work. My knees have scars for miles from paying homage to my own ego. All I want now is compassion.
That, and my sanity.
