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I want to be saved by you, but only I can save myself, isn't that right? Loving was never about saving or being saved, but oh! how I wish it was. Tonight I sit on the topmost stair, head resting on the wall. I am waiting...for what? I am tired. I do not know. I wish I could say I was waiting for you, but I can't ever be sure. To wait means there's something coming.

I feel like I am stretched too much, the threads of my life spanning a lot more space at the price of wearing thin. Maybe that's what I'm waiting for. I am waiting for the breaking point, for the fabric to finally tear apart, leave me in tatters. I am waiting for the blow that severs life from limb, or thought from action. I wait for everything. Everything that is nothing.

I want to be saved by you.

I want to be loved by you.

I want you to deal the killing blow. Render me senseless. Exempt me from blame.