Allergies to Society

I do not have time for people who need constant supervision and promises of my love... Love in friendship... I have exhaustion and illness that drives stakes into me, see, stakes like the ones you set on how our friendship would be. I can not take the time to pet all your wounds, that is something a significant other would do. Friendship is not the most important thing in my life, not unlike how highschoolers say Forever and mean until prom. 
I have an interior world I do not let anyone inside. I do not care how persistant you are in asking. Can you not see the door is closed? As well as all this, consider this, I have lost my voice. I have to cough it out in the morning and soothe its aggression against me with medicinal teas, throat herb drops, and steam baths. I am carrying about tissues and using them all until I am flushing the remainder of the wealth down. Weak of tone I am now, I only called my mother and even then sat in silence for some time as my voice had sailed on. 
I have had my anger sparked and no air in my lungs to blow out the flame. It is not that I wanted to forget about you. And I did not forget. I just could not speak your language those days. I could only cloud bust with my eyes tight shut closed. My fingers escaped their lacing with my sweet heart's. in the night my heart is a closed glove. I have no energy for you after him. 
I am pretending all social skills, because I want them terribly. For you and for me and for the masquerade of normalacy. But the mask slips and I settle back into my skin of the person who forgets, and is bombed by her flowers, bombed into creation. A symbol of the human genius should be a figure in love with a book. A book has so many connections and a friend is only that one person. That one connection which never ends up seeming important unless they can handle when I am silent. When I am coughing up my voice again.
There is a coral necklace around me, wrapped all down my length. Simple emotions have been etched into each bead and I see where my artistry has failed me. It merely looks crudely carved. 
Am I turning blind? Eyes all staring in and cloudy covering the eye lids. I have a mouth like a rose bud, open the pedals and the scent is more potent than the sound of anything other than the picking of me. Picked and placed in a vase, to oooh over until the stem has rotted and collapsed, and each petal collected will be pressed in between two big hard slabs of wood screwed down to press me. Strong and securely. Who do I want to see me pressed? Pressed against my sweet heart, his face above mine which is pressed in internal conflict to his coat front, my hand on his paint stained sleeve. paint the sound of my anguish and of my joy and of my life, and when i am gone remember only the colours, remember all of the tones. I know I can trust you to get all details right, but remember to step away from it once in awhile, remember to walk the city streets and feel the breeze in your hair, and the way stone feels under your hands, with the other on a single blade of grass... but this feels like I am writing you, my sweet heart, a suicide note. That was not my intention but I think I am slipping into the ruitine thought of what if I am leaving. Perpetually flying far from the safety of your hands, And I decide I am swimming underneath the sand.
Just stare at the sand and see the water life washed up and dying. You will scoop them up in both hands tenderly and take them past the tides, you will take them back out to see. Swept away days own the sand, each life which died with out you there to take it back to sea- each of them gave a little to the sand we walk along which is why I can not be romantic. Which is why I am crying. Which is why I feel stretched wide open and the salt of the other side of the world is coming in. High tide is occuring in my eyes tonight. I gave my screams to the canopy of stars across. I gave my whispers to the shells so they would have more stories to tell, and I gave my body to you who would merely hold it in the twilight, hold until I was no longer falling apart. 
Each tender moment is intersecting the last, with the vibration of machinery killing the sand castle built between. I put in the draw bridge and the polution brings in mercury. 
Flower frenzy to show you, I have a stain green where I slipped. On my way to completing you, On my way to giving you back what you gave so long ago in RuthE's yard. So long ago where the stars were a canopy and I was wading in your smypathy. I loved you then, I hope you know. I love you more, but now I am more afraid to reach for you with the same abandon of a child like wise moment. Beating hearts, oh good god gracious, were you beautiful and delicate. I was cutting you with my words of past and present was tainted and made more delicate by my mother and by my not barely ready to rush in your arms and away from my contraptions for hiding tradgety in mirth. My mirth was a gate way that few walked in. None other than you, actually, in your frenzy for the details. In the stakes I am running into my chest, in the razors I bled my arms into, a merge of bio and pure chemical metal rusts.