Pee Em Es?

I'm here sitting beside you, eating the chicken joy I was craving for,
eating the chicken joy you were so gracious enough to allow me to have.
And you have just woke up.
And again, I have said the wrong things.
And again you are silent as the deadly fart escaping my butthole every 5 minutes.
Isn't it depressing to have someone to love whose idea of knowing you is saying all the wrong things that would make you sulk?
It is a different kind of knowing.
The kind of knowing I feel would make you think if I m worth everything you are doing---stuff you have sacrificed, stuff you are continually sacrificing.
I am again left with devilish thoughts that makes me soooo insecure.

Going back to my faithful chicken whose crispiness temporarily gives me a diversion to not think about stuff. (And how ingenious to deduce everything to stuff)
I wish it was your feelings that I am now dissecting that I may know and understand.
Maybe it is PMS.
Or maybe it is a symptom of something big.