Can anyone look at me, really, just look at me, and not be disappointed. See me, and themselves for that matter, for who we REALLY are?
Is all love based on delusion? It is. That’s my theory for the moment anyway. It’s a hoax. A feeling of paranoia. Ehhh, not so much in your view anyway. But in mine, certainly. A fantasy. In more ways than one.
Please. Please keep me safe. Please pleasure me. Please take me where my body wants to go. Needs to go. Perhaps even, please love me?
Confused. Used. Broken. Abused.
So over that shit. Don’t call. Don’t text. DON’T GIVE IN.
You stress me out. You wear me out. I’m hollow.
Forgotten pages. Left behind. The stories of our lives.
Leave me to mine.
Funny how in these stories we call our lives, the characters never seem to be on the same page.
The reality: we are often not even in the same book.
It’s the consciousness of that conclusion that crushes a soul.
The Tao of unsaying
3 months ago