Sep 2019
I've try my **** hardest to feel loved, accepted.
I lead people to fall in love, and leave them because I can. Even though I promised them different.
I complain about boys, but the boys aren't the problem it's me. I'm the one who makes these problems for myself because it's easier to push everyone away and deal with those consequences as they come, rather than to accept my forever fate. I say it's because I'm young, I can't find the one. I know all the right things to say, so they'll stick around, even after i've left them in the dust too many times, but I do know not to say love. It confuses them, and me.
I know love isn't in my heart, never has. Heartbreak started before I was born. When my father didn't want me, my mother couldn't have truly wanted me, after all she was 16, everyone around me was burdened by me before I even opened my eyes.
I hear it a lot, "you look, remind me of your mother" "You remind me so much of myself" "My mini me" You have the same issues, depression, bipolar, trust issues, and failure to commit, it's pretty insignificant, but it's lurking there, in my head. Scratch that it all races through my veins, and I'm surrounded by it, as everyone I know is infected by it too.
It commitment even real? As far as I know, it's something I couldn't even imagine. I have these people trying to get at me, claiming, "Let it be just me and you baby" but every time I fall for those lies, I can't help to start chasing a different one, more and more.
Picking up that bottle seems like second nature. Along with my issues, I was blessed with addiction, that's racing through my veins more than commitment isn't. I'm told not to let it get out of hand, after all I've seen what it does to people. But I can't help but find myself longing for the next time I can feel the warmth of that liquid as it slides down my throat. Longing for the next time I can place that skinny piece of paper between my fingers, lighting it as the smoke slithers down to find my lungs, inhaling to insure it's doing it's job, then exhaling to see the smoke dance around the air that's consuming me. Longing for the next time I can feel happiness. Longing for the next time I can punch something to release my anger, because we all know I can't do it creatively.
I lead people to fall in love, and leave them because I can. Even though I promised them different.
I complain about boys, but the boys aren't the problem it's me. I'm the one who makes these problems for myself because it's easier to push everyone away and deal with those consequences as they come, rather than to accept my forever fate. I say it's because I'm young, I can't find the one. I know all the right things to say, so they'll stick around, even after i've left them in the dust too many times, but I do know not to say love. It confuses them, and me.
I know love isn't in my heart, never has. Heartbreak started before I was born. When my father didn't want me, my mother couldn't have truly wanted me, after all she was 16, everyone around me was burdened by me before I even opened my eyes.
I hear it a lot, "you look, remind me of your mother" "You remind me so much of myself" "My mini me" You have the same issues, depression, bipolar, trust issues, and failure to commit, it's pretty insignificant, but it's lurking there, in my head. Scratch that it all races through my veins, and I'm surrounded by it, as everyone I know is infected by it too.
It commitment even real? As far as I know, it's something I couldn't even imagine. I have these people trying to get at me, claiming, "Let it be just me and you baby" but every time I fall for those lies, I can't help to start chasing a different one, more and more.
Picking up that bottle seems like second nature. Along with my issues, I was blessed with addiction, that's racing through my veins more than commitment isn't. I'm told not to let it get out of hand, after all I've seen what it does to people. But I can't help but find myself longing for the next time I can feel the warmth of that liquid as it slides down my throat. Longing for the next time I can place that skinny piece of paper between my fingers, lighting it as the smoke slithers down to find my lungs, inhaling to insure it's doing it's job, then exhaling to see the smoke dance around the air that's consuming me. Longing for the next time I can feel happiness. Longing for the next time I can punch something to release my anger, because we all know I can't do it creatively.
