Into Dust

"Why are you doing this?" She asks, her eyes holding mine.

"Because-"

"When do you want to stop? When do you want, to want to stop?"

I'm irritated at her, frustrated. We've gone through this over and over and over again, why the fuck doesn't she get it? And then I realize the problem- she does.

She does get it, and then she takes it and throws it back at me, forcing me to re-explain myself. And I hate her for it.

"Why are you turning on me now?"

"I'm not. I just. I want this so much that it scares me into not wanting it. And then, I don't know what to do with myself."

"I'm doing this, because... Because sometimes I'm scared. And sometimes I'm unsure, and this is familiar. But most times, I'm frustrated and I need a way out. Most times, it's the only way I know how to hold on to myself."

"I'm spinning," she tells me, looking up.

"But then, once the spinning slows itself, and you strain to see through the blur in your eyes,

it feels like you've found yourself. Like you will. Like you'll be okay."

"Like I'll be okay."

"Like I'll be okay."