The part.

You always say, I would give my right arm for, I would give my life for. I would slice my hands clean off if I saw. I would slit my throat if I knew. If you broke my heart. If you broke my mind. If you tore out my soul, I would hope to die. I would hope that my body would just disappear.

And parcel.

You keep a little to yourself. Your gifts and offerings hang on strings in the air, all floating baubles bobbling and twinkling, all starry. You say, This is enough. You think, Is this enough. Is it enough for you? You wish you could give, more, even though you're holding it all in. Hypocrit, cursing and praising yourself all the time, pacing back and forth wondering how to do two things at once. Is that selfish or lost? You try to make it enough. You think hard, and you give the most of you.

All the musing is a shiny tear in a tiny bowl. You could stare for hours at yourself, trying to figure it out, trying to solve the mystery, but then you'd be accused of vanity. You could stare into the television pixels, you could discover puzzles and harmonies hidden in everyday noise, but then you'd be accused of lunacy. You could sit on the edge of everything and comtemplate for hours on end, staring out as if from behind a plate of glass, but oh, that's so awful lonely.

i forgot how lovely your writeing is