I stare blankly at the bathroom wall where the tiled portion meets the faded blue paint as it soaks in... I liked it
The years of unrequited love, the chase for affection, the tortured artist twisted up in twisted tortured feelings
I spent year writing dark poems, letting the liquid manifest as a physical representation of the tears shed and bleeding heart. Did I like it?
My existence was wandering streets alone, getting lost in melancholy songs, wondering if love equated pain.
Then I found what I told my notebook I'd been searching for all along. Someone loves me, someone gives me love, and I spent so much time searching for it, enjoying the hunt and getting gratification out of my own self-deprecation that I'm lost even though I'm found.
Do I like it? Did I like that? Do I like this?
I can't seem to decipher affection and how it's supposed to make me feel versus how it does. Did I like looking for it more than having it?
Am I so ****** up that I love not receiving love more than receiving it?
I don't want to run; I want to stay; I always used to run to and away.