Malnutrition

We seem to have run out of things to talk about.
I hit bedrock after about two feet of digging.
You screamed and begged me not to dig any further.
Reactive attachment turns your plate tectonics to tissue paper.

What function do I serve in your life?
If you are the whole world than am I the moon?
Is my purpose simply to provide you with light when your sun has left?
I wonder if you know how lonely it is for me up here trapped in your gravity.

For four years I have orbited around you, never getting any closer.
Sometimes I reflect my light straight at you and other times I can't bear to look at you.
We tell jokes and play games and watch movies.
We act like your diamond hard skin isn't completely transparent.

Sometimes I wonder if you know that your ego stuck in your teeth.
Your heart is swollen and yellowed.
It beats against the left side of your brain, pumping it full of petroleum jelly.
If you are the whole world then you have locked the rest of the universe in a tiny box.

We don't ever seem to talk about anything that matters.
Our magma plays chess, our kings in stalemate.
Meanwhile I desperately search for a part of your crust that isn't bruised.
Do see me or have you stuffed me inside the box with everything else?

You bury yourself in junk.
When I go in your room I see piles of books and video games and computers.
Plastic people line your desk, frozen in the pose you placed them in.
Am I just another action figure on your shelf?
There is more empty space in you than there is in your room.

All of the food in your refrigerator is packaged in plastic.
You smell like artificial preservatives.
Your caffeine buzz counteracts the florescent lights in your brain.
I wonder if you realize how ironic it is that you love cafeteria food.

You tell me about your new favorite T.V. show.
You tell me about the new video game you bought.
You tell me that all your teachers suck for giving you bad grades.
You can't think of anything new to say.
Maybe we should just stop talking all together.