I’m the ring your first love gave to you. I’m shiny and gold for the whole of the day, then eventually you stop treasuring it so much and the gold starts flaking off to reveal some cheap metal underneath that turns your fingers a rotten green. Because that’s what I do. I start taking things from people, demanding their time in exchange for my misery that they can’t begin to cure, and I don’t know when to stop. And no one likes that. So, it’s easier if you throw it away the minute it loses its shine.
moreI’m perfectly benevolent and willing to share power as long as I can do whatever I damn well choose.
Because if it doesn’t belong to you, then it can’t hurt you. Nothing can hurt you if it doesn’t belong to you and you don’t belong to anything either. It just can’t.
Irrational hatred is all well and good and something that I indulge in and relish every sticky, velvety, sweet moment of.
I should sell tickets to the shambles that is my life.
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result. I think in some versions of the dictionary ‘hungover’ also has this description.
I don’t like being on my own. There’s no real way to escape yourself when you’re alone.
Because every single person that touches my skin – out of every person – none of them have ever made me feel simultaneously fucking terrified and like the bravest person alive. Every person that even comes within close proximity of me (a two mile radius) shall now forever be compared to him and will, inevitably, come up short. And when I persuade them to take my clothes off, I’ll imagine their eyes as his, their plundering lips as his, prying hands and teasing skin. Their ecstasy thrusting inside me will be his. And then I’ll open my eyes and it won’t be him.
Contact is for sex and/or support when drunk. Or violence. Foreplay is a luxury that people can rarely afford. Especially when it’s pointless. The end result is to come, which is achieved by sheer mechanics. A hand/mouth here, a moan of approval there, and its All Systems Go. People don’t touch just for skin on skin. They just don’t.
Not many people mess with my heart. Not many make an impact. I don’t think it’s ever been broken. Don’t think it’s ever been touched. There are a lot of things strewn around the human form to distract you from the heart, a lot of tricks hidden behind the skin. Orgasms, for example. It’s easy to miss the heart when there are so many simpler things in the way. It’s even easier to miss it when you’re not aiming for it in the first place.
Because we’re both sad and tired and scared of being alone. And we’re both sad and tired and scared of being with anyone. And we’re both a bit too scared of ourselves to trust anyone. Too scared to trust ourselves not to hurt. Both too reliant on words and gestures that lie.
Hate it when there’s no proper ending to things. When things just fade away. Like you never really believed something would be forever, really, but you let yourself believe it a little bit, once, and it still stings when it doesn’t snap and break – just slowly fades to grey. And there’s no pain or crying, because it’s so slight you don’t notice it till it’s gone, and then you’re not ever really sure you had it in the first place.... And it all just fades. And it’s so subtle, the change. And the secrets and sneaking around you did well, kept them to yourself. Only you’re not sure if it was ever real at all, when the bites on your neck and the scratches on your back fade. Makes you think that maybe you just imagined it all along, built yourself some happiness out of fiction, and that the only place you’ll ever not be lonely will be in the small cramped space of your own mind, where you’re safe from everything but yourself.