04/06/2024
Oh, no. I’m sad and I wrote something…
Perhaps
Perhaps it’s my fault. We could blame it on my willingness to trust. My eagerness to love. Perhaps no one deserves trust before it is earned. I, however, cannot believe I deserve ,“I love you,” to be the last words I hear before someone goes no contact. Especially, not three times in a row. From three different people.
I am a mentally ill criminal. I associate with such. How am I so openly selfless in the face of such guarded self preservation? There is no currency in life of any worth to me outside of love. I’m just as willing to spend my love as any other capital. However, the adage that “scared money don’t make none” seems to not apply to me. Perhaps my “money” is more reckless than brave.
I yearn to learn my lesson. To become jaded and guarded. But I am an addict and drugs is drugs. Tell me you love me and listen to me opine my lot in life. That’s enough. Throw in a kiss, or a f**k, and that’s co***ne on top of wine and w**d.
I have a problem. I can’t validate myself. I can’t be sober from the drug of human embrace. I’ve left behind every other drug in exchange for love, my drug of choice. In the stead of affection, I’ll turn to anything, really. Love should be readily available. I distribute my supply indiscriminately. Sometimes, my most reliable dealers dry up. And there’s a difference between the s**t cut with B12 and caffeine that you get from your friends and the raw unfiltered s**t you get from a naked woman. I don’t mean disrobed, I mean stripped of pretense. Pure unadulterated love is only worth cutting with lust, and that, my friend, is a speedball that will leave you spinning.
This is the diary of a dope fiend. Slobbering, withdrawing, itching, and ranting. There is no release save another hit. I am hot. I am cold. I don’t know how I got here. I want out.
