You feel weak in my hand, all trembling plastic and mute colour. I didn’t realise my fingers were capable of simple suffocation. I guess you learn something new everyday. Protests bang against invisible walls in outrage, like unpopular mimes. It’s no use, you’re on the move. You will fix it all, whether you want to or not. Your touch will whisk the hairs on my legs into a froth of activity. They will respond to your sharp, suffocated tone. They will sway in submission. You will fix it all. You will fix it all. Fix it all.
It only takes one cut, one crinkle, one crumble. I knew you were weak from the start. I used up every last nerve you had for my own selfish satisfaction. Now you are discarded amongst a grave of tissues and towel. I forget about your flimsy functionality and move on to the next with guilt.