i am a convenience tucked under your shoulder

there are some nights at two in the morning at which a burning pang in my chest rises and i start to long to be more than i am.

it’s of my own volition, really, that i am “someone convenient”. selfishness and greed and self-pity and something dark, simmering, encroaches on my willingness to communicate in any extent. i encroach on my willingness to interact at all.

still. as it’s irrational. i lie in bed with the light of my wretched iphone illuminating the divots in my face and the pang of heat slipping under my skin, and long desperately for more.

more than a test reviser, uni app consulter, assignment editor, emotional crutch. i want people to open me and think more than “oh. i could really use some help right about now”. i want the response to be more than guilt, more than a favour for a heart. i want to be more than someone who’s only hung out with when i’m useful, and available, and when there’s no one else to hang out with. i want so much to be more than “i can’t do today, but i’ll need you tomorrow”.

i want someone to look at me and extend a hand simply because i had a hand that they liked and they had a hand to extend. i want someone to look at me.

and i know, in the bottomless depths of the pit of my stomach that there is nothing worth loving there, but i want it all the same, like a gadget set on clockwork to keep going and going and wanting and moving ahead.