I thought I kicked the habit when I kicked you out of my life. Six months, six months! without a hit. I felt better than ever. Really empowered, you know?
And then, when you came around again, looking for friendship and sympathy, I thought I had matured enough to handle you this time. I thought, “I’m different now. I know him better. I won’t be so naïve.” So I took you back with open arms, playing the “we’re just friends” card to anyone who asked about my newfound friendship with you, an ex-boyfriend. I openly drove away anyone who wanted you. I threatened and manipulated a girl I disliked so she would stay away from you. I did everything I could to be with you.
When you admitted to me that you still were attracted to me, when you casually suggested being friends-with-benefits, I almost lost it. I started falling into old, self-destructive behaviors. I see history repeating itself and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. If you find out I’m cutting again, I don’t know what I’ll say when you ask me why. Because there’s only one answer and it’s an answer I can’t bear to give you: I’m addicted to you.
Every day I’m around you, you break my heart a little more and that’s why I reach for the razors when I get home from a disappointing day without you. If I told you that, you’d do something drastic, something so that I’d have to hate you and I would have to leave you alone. But how would that help? You are my drug. You will not make me better; you are not FDA approved. You are the kind of drug that causes exhilarating highs and crushing withdrawals. I am a junkie for your presence. I am hooked. I am consumed. You have me within your grasp.
But it doesn’t matter. You tend to throw away whatever you have. I tried so hard to make you want me. I’ve never had sex before, but I know enough about that world to know how to be sexy. I bought lingerie online, being too meek to buy it in a store. I stopped eating, started exercising, all done just for you, just to be irresistible to you. I told myself over and over that I didn’t care. That it would be a meaningless fling. That you and I are just friends and that that’s all I want, with the exception of your cock.
I’ve lied to everyone else, why shouldn’t I lie to myself?