He saw me like an art enthusiast would see his favourite painting,
complex but mesmerising. He didn't see the darker strokes as insipid,
he looked at them as real, he loved the truth, as ****** up and nauseating as it can be. i lay next to him every night, covered in a pool of my insecurities gnawing at me, a constant reminder '' you will never be enough''. i loved him in the kind of way in which i loved to get high, he made me stop thinking, he made me numb to all my demons but eventually i come down and when i do i hate him. i hate the way he looks at me eager too see how i'll **** up next so he has something to write about. i need him, because he sees me naked in my flaws and he stays.   he needs me because he's an artist and i'm his ******* masterpiece.    
so i take a hit and another and another, lay there motionless with aching bones and scarred skin and he loves me, so i spiral out and he lets me, he keeps me going going going.....