(this stands as both lore and as a vent, as well as some poetry)

the wooden man cries:
i'm so tired of pushing people away. I hurt them either way, don't I? if they're so desperate to be close to me, I might as well let them stick; but one day they'll be overwrought and fall to the floor, prone. no matter what I do in life, i'll never be a real person behind it all. I feel like i'm nothing but an empty shell; a crawl-space filled with dust and cockroach hives, crawling with maggots and rotten things. if I could affect one thing, anything, in anybody's life, they would simply walk away hurt, and I would be alone again.
I don't want to fight, or be angry, or growl and snap at people anymore. i'm so tired; I just want to let myself be quiet and sensitive again, but i've had to harden myself and become stoic and angry. it feels like a roiling fire in my chest.
I don't want anyone to leave me ever again, but they always do eventually, and it's always my fault, whether they say it or not. I can't even let myself be honest. is what i'm saying here even true? am I even a person?

am I truly just a living crawl-space?

am I truly just an effigy of wood and bone?

--Andrew