Darling, we’re about 700-something days in to this blazing shitpile, and while the cuts on your chest have sealed and healed, I am still leaking poison.
Drag me in again and I’ll punch my guts enough to choke up whatever the toxins haven’t eaten away at yet.
Toss me a handgun and I’d blow it all away for you.
It makes me sick.
More sick than you do.
I hate that. God, I fucking *HATE* that. Yet, I can’t bring myself to hate YOU. I can grit my teeth and it would still twist into a smile. It’s crazy. It’s a drug.
Dynamite to our tower.
I wish you would have told me you loved me when you did.
I wish I would have told you I loved you before running off with that asshat that wasn’t worth my time.
Knowing that I still love you doesn’t make me happy anymore. Yet, I can’t fight it. I can’t help myself.
I can not help myself, love.
You’re the salt at the bottom of a Doritos bag. You’re a giant slice of blueberry cheesecake just before three am.
Fuck, this isn’t about food.
All I want is you.
If my body and mind could withstand it, I would risk it all.
I would drop everything in a second.
This desire is potent, and I feel it cooking its way to the surface of my skin after scarring through everything on the inside.
It’s scorched my heart and engulfed my mind in smoke, taunting a heated ecstasy and pushing it’s own lies as reality.
I want to give in.
I want to let go.
My passion is in the wrong place, L. It’s all your FUCKING FAULT.
God, I love you.