I slept through 1 fucking text.

Two seconds. That he would hate himself for 2 seconds and something bad would happen. That's what I constantly dread. Constantly as in without cessation. 

If you lived like that, with constant dread of that, you would want to strap him to the bed too, with the old leather restraints that he had found it charming I had saved.

My mind breaks from itself, and I am a "she", a character in a book, who can actually tie him up sometimes instead of just worry ALL the time. 

https://vegoutmag.com/lifestyle/d-psychology-says-people-who-hate-small-talk-but-excel-in-deep-conversations-arent-socially-awkward-theyre-socially-selective-and-the-discomfort-they-feel-in-surface-level-exchanges-isnt-s/

And while I'm awake bitching about being worried, this too. Provided that he's alive tomorrow, and I'm awake worried that he's not for no reason, I'm not good at chit chat. Or walking on eggshells. So then I shut up just because I don't want to do those things. Sorry not sorry, it's not like I'm new, so anybody talking to me should kind of know what to expect: intense scrutiny of myself and them and life and everything. AND "How was your day honey?" is a ridiculous question anyway when a good day is "I cut somebody open" etc. 

I don't know what the fuck you want from me and at this point, the reason why I fuck you so much in my head is not lust as much as exasperation with all other forms of communication. Like texts that make me think you've blown your head off or some equivalent of drunk yourself death - upshot: I'd rather fuck you than get texts like that. And psychologically I think that's fair even if not logistically possible or desirable. If you're dead and I should have said this all yesterday, I 

dunno