I guess this is flash fiction. Maybe it’s prose poetry? Whatever it is, it’s redolent of sadness, wrecked relationships, and deep pain. It’s not from personal experience, but I recognize enough of myself in the lines to be sympathetic and somewhat horrified.
Did you bring me comfort or dead flowers? you want to know, and I guess I don’t blame you. I’ve done both, and I’ve got more of a thing for wilted plants than hugs. Sorry about that, but not really.
You need help, you tell me. Do I? Maybe. I swim in the waters of myself, take my own medicine, and shine the brightest light in the universe right into my ugly eyes. I know what I am. I know how easily I can hurt you, and you think it’s fucked up that I know it and keep doing it, and then you blame yourself for letting me come around. I guess we both need help.
I’m moving. Don’t try to find me, you say, and I break myself against the wall. You tell me to stop, but I don’t. I do it again, and you cry. I tell you to look at the pieces, and you do. Then you gather them and put them back together as best you can.
Just try harder, you say. It’s a dumb line, but I don’t laugh. Instead, I take your hand in mine. I don’t crush it. I kiss it and lie, Okay.