I was never just right. Enough. I was too clingy, too needy, too insecure. Or, I was the other end of the spectrum; too cold, a self righteous bitch. It’s like I ripped the skin of my body for this fucking person, and all they ever did was dispose of it; wait for a new layer to grow again. When I was raw, they would set me on fire, and stand back until the ashes covered their shoes with a film of regret. Perhaps there is no truth in fighting fire with fire. Perhaps you have to starve it of what it needs the most.