Perhaps I need your cruel, hard love. Your selfishness and all your little tidbits that are never quite enough. Your pain and your loneliness. Your blatant disregard for how I feel. The fact that I will never be first. It doesn’t matter. I can never be great in your eyes because you forget the things I say and do. So I will be nobody. Your random somebody. Your fuck, your friend, your lover. Your enemy. I will be a different person every day, because each day you forget the meaning from before. But that, like all other things, is what it is. Because nothing around here stays around here long enough for it to matter.