Breathing

You know too much about me.
Too much for someone
bound to lose themselves
in the hierarchy of hourglasses,
anyway. I still can't believe you did.
My strong arms and legs
were thin and fragile
weak, you could call it
after an hour of slamming
these prided limbs
into your pretty little face
on repeat. You were only a
pillow, of course, supported by
flaunting simulations
that were supposed
to provide me with what I needed
in these, you know. Visions.
Still, those needs flitted away,
taking every corner to escape
my line of sight. Because
really, what was a pillow
to reality? And I know
it sounds stupid, but
I hammered that old pillow,
so cheap and lifeless,
until my being had drowned itself
in a sobered, halfhearted pool
of feathers and thread.
I was crying.
I gathered the mess I'd made,
hands trembling, and I
gave you a hug. Practically
suffocated that worn fabric.
I wish I hadn't hurt you like that,
even if you were only
a pillow in a dream. I
trusted you, and you left me
behind, and I hate you for it.
But I think I miss you more.