And the way his hand outstretched, implying I needed any help at all. Just five spread fingers there laughing at me, the incredulous extra push forward they made when I didn't take them. And maybe I wanted to be on the ground, maybe I was happy there, maybe that's where I belonged. And who was he to say I needed to get back up. And what was this sudden fascination people had with helping anyway. When did the world become such a bright and shining place. When was everything everyone did worthy of praise and admiration. And when did I get to be like this, hurt and lonely on a cold hard floor. His hand still asked for mine. It was not going anywhere. I hated him for that.
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