Nothing Says You're Sorry Like A Dead

I Thought You Were Dead. Stupid. As If I'd Die Without Taking You With Me.

Heart Turned To Me, His Face Thought­ful. “yes­ter­day Morn­ing. Yes, That Means That Daphne Hadn’t Been Home For Two Days Be­fore That.” He Smiled At Me. “you Were Sup­posed To Be The Al­pha’s Eye Can­dy.” Adam Laughed. “what?” I Asked Him. “you Don’t Think I’d Be Good Eye Can­dy?” I Looked Down At My Over­alls And Grease-​stained Hands. I’d Torn An­oth­er Nail To The Quick. “hon­ey Is Eye Can­dy,” Said Ben Apolo­get­ical­ly. “you’re . . . Just You.” “mine,” Said Adam, Edg­ing Be­tween Heart And Me. “mine Is What She Is.

I Am The Reality Of All Coyotes. The Archetype. The Epitome. You Are Just A Reflection Of Me.

But You Can't Marry Someone To Fix Him, Even If You Love Them.

If It Looks Like A Hallway, Feels Like A Hallway, And Acts Like A Hallway—is It Important To Figure Out That It Isn’t A Hallway?