Until Death Do Us Part

I get sick of missing you,
sometimes I could just pull my fucking hair out,
strand by strand.

And sometimes I come close,
but I never do it. I don't pull my hair out.
I can see how someone would get to that point,
but something outside of me is determined.

Every time my panic grows,
it builds and builds until I'm panting,
and I begin to think, to really convince myself
that my respiratory system is about to fail me.

And then I calm down,
and I'm okay again, if only for now.

But I get so sick of missing you,
often I wish that I'd never calm down,
or that my respiratory system would fail me after all.

That
would be better than
this.