9/20, no. 41

Somehow, you see beauty in her, a pile of broken bones, and you know you can repair these bones to create a human. Your unfailing faith in her keeps her somewhat stable, although she doesn't realize it. The pile of bones is a beautiful thing to none but you, and you cradle these osseous sticks, these rigid organs, these weak, weak, ugly bones. She, the crooked broken skeleton, awakens from her comatose. For the very first time, she sees you. Both nervous and ecstatic and unaware how to act, you approach her with open arms, and she falls into you.

It isn't long before these bones you hold grow into a human that holds you back. With eyes anew, she sees your broken heart and the malignant pain in your body. Out of love, she attends to such injuries, and you both grow.

And soon, peculiarly, like the progression of life, the conclusion resembles the introduction. Little else is on her mind besides you - caring for you, attending to you, loving you. She soon realizes that she would be a pile of broken bones had it not been for you. She then sees the necessary attachment, how she needs you, she needs you.

But as her dependence grows, you see the charm in separation as you feel as though your work here is done. You've created a human, a monster, a body of feelings and thoughts and emotions, and you try to make this easy on her, the human, the human human, and you fill her with empty words, hollow promises of complacency, and when she's holding onto you tight (she fills you with warmth now that she is no longer a scattered distribution of mineralized osseous tissue, so she can hold you just as warmly as you once held her) and you say no, no, no, it's better, you'll be better, and you finally get her to let go of you as her human emotions set in and tears begin to drown her face and you are finished...what about her?