I told myself that I’d be a complete social chameleon, said I wouldn’t let anyone dictate what I liked. Turns out they were both lies. I told myself that I’d love me more than anyone else ever could, I said that my strength would be what ran my environment. Guess that wasn’t to be.
I itch for a relation but run from relationships. And I hate it so much that it burns like copper coils. It invades my lungs like air and breaks me down like bad *** kids near cardboard boxes.
But for some reason I identify with it now, it’s like, I’m intimate with loneliness. I can caress its jagged edged emptiness with the warmth of my fingertips at any given day, and it always responds. I can speak into its bitter silence and feel the echoes reverberate back to my lonesome ears, and it feels like I’m hearing someone else with my voice. I can kiss its luscious darkness and combine with it anytime imaginable, and it makes me feel loved by simply everything.
You can call it a wish. You can call it imagination or depression. But regardless of what you think, I’m in a single relation. And I hold hands with it proudly.