What do you want with me?I am a bag of broken bones. A cluttered group of attempts at something meaningful, a continuous string of desires and ideas. I am corporeal and undefinable, I am literal and imaginary.
These pieces inside this mess of atoms are only pieces--and if you sew them together, they make a body.
This indefinable heart and this ambiguous soul are fading quickly, falling slowly into an end that could be grand and could be deadly.
This indefinable heart--to whom does it belong?
Were it mine, I've long since lost it. I've thrown it to the dogs and tossed it in an ocean and dropped it down a well and left it in a cave.
And you. You've only let me do it.
This indefinable heart is only pieces now--and what good is debris to you? Splinters and shards of something that was partial to begin with.
What do you want with me?
What good am I to you?
When I plead, you refuse. When I run, you pursue.
Seems to me I'm the only one who as any idea what they want.
Because you're just making a mess.