Maybe

I have nagging impulses to bleed for him.

If I punish myself for his displeasure, maybe I'll be able to stop my misdeeds on the same instinctive level on which they're born. I don't want to make it difficult for there to be an 'us'. And after all this time together, he just gets harder to read. Maybe I didn't notice his small signs of disappointment before, or maybe they're in my head. Or maybe I used to make him happy in a way that I don't anymore. There are too many maybes, too many shrugs, too much indifference. Sometimes I want him to scream at me and tell me to stay out of his way and out of his life. Sometimes I continue acting unfavorably in hopes that whatever is holding him to me will break. One of us is going to break, maybe both of us, and this constant bending almost to the point of snapping is wearing on me in a way that I've never experienced.

Maybe it's all actually fine and I'm misreading everything. His signs of discontent may just be fleeting annoyances. Familiarity breeds contempt and all that.

When I sprained my ankle, the doctor said it probably would've hurt less if I'd broken it. Maybe I should break it. But, like I'm partial to my ankle, I'm partial to him.

I love him in a way deeper than our fading flirtation and affection. I owe him something, and all I have to give sometimes is the silent offering of my blood.