I tell myself to block your number; I know that's
all it would take. I tell myself to avoid the night, insidious darkness making its home inside my spine. Heart pounding, hands shaking, waiting for that call that only comes past midnight when you're stumbling and looking for someone warm to hold. You and I both know that I am weak for your arms. Each weekend finds me expectant, hopeful, trying desperately to push those emotions away. I tell myself to let you go. They've been saying it for months; you're no good. But your mouth, those lips, what your hands can do to me. You're just another way to destroy myself. Slowly, achingly-- we both know how this is going to end.