a cross section of indecision soaked in formaldehyde

I’m uncertain. I’m sorry. I can’t even meet you halfway. I know it hurts you, but it hurts me even more knowing that I have so much but can give very little. Thank you for hanging around. I’m sure I’ll get to it some time. But there’s always the danger, always, the impending possibility of you getting tired. We all have our breaking points. Impatience will brim; and I, disabled and scarred, will get what I deserve. A thing I plausibly want in secret- solitude.