she looks like a ghost

but she worries like an afterthought.

I think I was an afterthought. A sort of, "how the fuck did you end up down there?"
sometimes I wish I could see the mechanics, I want to know how these things work.
And I like you, yes, but I doubt the feeling is mutual. I doubt for a second you might even take a second look at me. I honestly don't care that much, but perhaps that is simply my apathy shining through. Maybe it's better to keep the things I love out of arms reach. I feel I will appreciate them more that way.
That's true too, I do love you.

I keep getting panicky each time I think about you. Panicky and sick. Panicky is sick. Panicky to soothe the nerves and to wrestle the strains into accord.