How can you love a broken pencil?

I feel nauseous. Like something terrible is about to happen…or already has. I feel like my grip is slipping off the handle, like I’m slowly but surely descending that spiral into chaos. I don’t have a leg to stand on; these days it’s nothing but me. I can’t quench my need for attention. For people. For love. These are the things my life is lacking. I feel utterly isolated, completely alone. I fear bipolarity; I cannot recognize myself sometimes. Well, I can, but I don’t see myself through my eyes- I see myself through the eyes of God. I can stare into myself and wonder how it is that my mind matches my face. I feel internally displaced. I’m crawling through ink and pastel madly and blindly searching for my catalyst. My Divine inspiration. She used to be you. I thought she always would be. You seem so far away now- you’ve become a fog that I can breathe but not touch. I used to exist because I felt love for you. My love defined my Mortality. But these days, I just feel nervous. Empty. Desperate. I can hear your voice, maybe once a day if I’m lucky. It’s been sounding more and more apathetic. If only I had your sort of apathy. You’re unwieldy nature. You’re kiss on my neck. You’re hips against mine. Keep talking and I’ll keep crawling, bleeding knees and all. I hope you’ll still take a broken soul.