Tell Me, Dear

My hands are red and blue, darling, and the smell of cheap laundry detergent fills my nostrils as I write this woeful tale down; down to you, sugar plum. Just for you, sadly, this is all for you. I have no better advice to give than to leave me, drop me, get me gone, for I am nothing and will never be more than nothing for you. I've got this problem, you see, and don't hate me for it, I'm just seeing it in me for the first time, I am, that I've got this problem where I stop my self from doing well. You ask, how could you keep yourself from the joy and happiness, you ask, well I'll tell you, darling, I love failing. There's nothing more exhilarating than knowing I failed when I could have done well. Yes, done better than well, done the best of anyone. Better than all the smart folks who always do well, even better than them. I know I could, sugar, but you see, I can't do that. If I did that I'd always have to keep doing well, doing better than well, and how could I do that, now tell me, dear? I don't have the stamina for that; I'd fall like a pile of leaves, crumble into dust to be walked upon by all those better than me that I'd do better than. I can't do that, I can't do well, how can I do well, tell me dear, I'm all atwitter with the anticipation of an answer. An answer only you can tell me so, please, darling, sweet-pea, my love, tell me how I am to do well?

No. Don't let me know. Leave me and get out of here. Get out before I drag you back in like I always do with my soft words and sweet moans. Oh, darling, I couldn't bear to see you down with me. Down in the muck. Down in the sweet nothing of potential. So get out. You've got so much that I could destroy, and honey, baby, my love, I really want to destroy you.