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I Used To Mean Something
Personal
 Created on 10-26-08
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 Story Rating G
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I used to mean something to her. I'd run and jump, and she'd catch me. The last time, I fell. I came crawling back to her, but she kicked me and turned away. I could only sink back into my bones, and realize how much I'm not.
When I cried out in hunger, she'd feed me lies. I'd lap them up eagerly, unable to accept anything else. Helpless, I even licked the bowl and spoon. Deprived of truth, I was malnourished. Ample secrets kept me alive. I could only fade back into myself, all the while believing what's not there.
When she plunged deeper into her darkness, I was dragged down, too, submerged in iniquity. Flashed wolfish smirks from friends of friends of friends, I could only smile as exchanges were made; I could only pretend I had no cares for what was going on. I couldn't fight back when pushed down. I only lay there, sickening man working above me, praying for someone to walk in my room before he does anything more. I only watched the door and felt as hope dwindled.
The day we were dirt-broke and she was going crazy, she walked out of her room after a three-day meth binge. We were only left with furniture, an empty fridge, and her anger ringing through the halls. She pulled me, blaming her misfortune on my existence. I was dragged around, while I plunged into realization and wished for inexistence.
I used to mean something to her.
I used to mean something.
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