breathe

The creaking hinges of the front door are stained with rust despite their recent appliance. It's almost an omen, as if no matter how new something is, it's still tainted. And it really is, this being the new door with all those translucent prisms and glass contortions. This is the same door you clumsily slammed your hand inside in attempt to quicken your pace for her. You are her greatest sense of pride and her worst disappointment. Although she spends endless nights slaving away at what she thinks is the right answer, you still expect her to return to you, to give you what you crave for. But your trust is fading, and soon you will take to relying on the closest to her you can get. But when that proves a holographic image, a wispy, pathetic excuse, a shoulder too bony to lean on, what remains?
Your silence will slowly deteriorate her body, leaving behind nothing of the euphoria you swept clean from mere irritability, and yet you understand that this is happening. Frustration finds its way to you like it always does, climbing up your skin and nestling into your scalp. You lash out, pulling your hair out in great clumps, before realizing it won't do a thing. You stand up, finished with responsibility, finished with trying to make people happy, finished with anything that means using willpower. Done. You make your way toward the new door, what was supposed to be a fresh start but instead turned out a mental disaster.
"I'm not part of you anymore," you tell her as you slam the door behind you, being careful not to slam your hand in the latch again to escape not only embarrassment, but a sense of dependence. Maybe you should have lowered your voice. Maybe you should have known what you WERE a part of before making such a bold statement.
But you know one thing. If you can make it through this lonely year, you can accomplish anything. Just breathe.