I'm the tears, falling down your cheeks when you feel you need attention, the callouses on your fingers you think nothing of sloughing off.
What happened to pride in ones work?
I've made a habit out of waiting up for you.
It's not hard to fall back into an old pattern.
For a while this was all I knew.
I'm well-learned and scholarly in the art of pining after you.
It's like riding a bike.
Who am I, you ask?
I don't even know anymore.
Ask me later.
I forget.
This frustration with myself can only wear so thin before the fabric rips altogether.
My proverbial clothes are falling apart from the acidic self-loathing I keep so close to my heart.
I could never stay mad at you.