Porous

So there's four fingernails stuck in the cleavage where your upper arm meets your lower arm. An excess of skin punctuated by spear enamel. You don't bleed, they're not that kind of fingernails, but you kind of feel them move around just enough to irritate you, to remind you of how they got there. It's sort of like having a monkey on your back that you can't seem to shake. A monkey that goes around and flings shit at other people. You can't help but think you're the reason the fault the problem. Everywhere.

It's a complex that seems all too firmiliar but it offers you comfort knowing you've seen it before. You wish you could do more for yourself but you feel guilty even thinking of it. There's so little time, so much to think about. Listen to sad songs, put them on loop, find a guitar, play them on loop.

You see it actually is your fault because you're being selfish deligating your time. Giving it to one where it should be shared elsewhere, should be given to her a little bit more. She needs you, she needs to talk, she needs you to know and you're out wagging your tail with a Panda Farm. You should've been could've been had to have been there to hear her out. You weren't.

You have to wonder how many mistakes you can make before that 110% you started out pushing through becomes something less than 0%. Every mistake you make seems to tick something else off the list of possible wrong answers, and it slowly counts down.

90%

You're not really doing as much as you can. You're not putting enough effort forward, it's probably becoming evident.

70%

You've got less and less time together, and you didn't even know something's happened, you just went on assuming.

45%

Stop the car and get out to look around. No one's watching, so you walk out onto the frozen water and look up at the stars. You hate all this perfect, you want to ruin it, you want it to know how you feel when you think everyone around you seems to have the worst shit happen to them. You kick through the ice and hope to fall through. It's not going to happen.

30%

There's one person.

10%

You can't seem to get a grip on it at all any more. You just go on blindly guessing, knowing it's probably your own fault.

0%

Game over.