I reach out from the depths of isolation and despair with one hand and shove my saviors with the other. A battle no one cares to notice. And i wonder what it is about me that makes me love unavailable people. I lament the answer. And if my love was not born in struggle or intrigue, would it even exist at all? I walk with the heaviest emptiness in my chest. The weight of love often too great of a burden to bear. I hate how deeply it torments me. I have built walls layers thick and impenetrable; Walls around the emptiness. And love is the chisel that destroys me every moment. And i love. I love until my fortress is a heap of rubble, bare and smoking on the floor…dusty and jagged. And i yell. And cry. And people sift through the debris and take what they deem desirable and scoff at the rest. Because that is all i am. A trophy or a blemish. And so i build. I pick up the pieces and i build. Over and over. Creation. Destruction. Round and round it goes. Being exposed is not an option. Nobody truly cares to see all of that anyway. The facade is all they truly want. Everything else is too instense, and they, too inadequate. Then she comes along. And brick by brick she disarms me. I allow it. I smile through the pain. I hate her. I fear her. I long for her. And i am buried under the weight of vulnerability and weakness, and the illusion of choice.