sick to my stomach

you make me sick to my stomach.

you make me want to go home, want to crawl into a strange bed, pull the sheets up over my head and never come out.

reality makes me carry on.

responsibilities. far more than the first time you tried to take everything from me.

perhaps i care more now that i understand you, and am more acutely tuned in so as to know when you're going to bitchslap me upside the head.

you won't win. not this time. not anymore. i won't let you.

i am better than you, even when i can't imagine it could be so.

adjust, readjust. whatever it takes. i'll never beat you, but you won't win.