It was not an affair of the heart, or of the emotions. It was an affair of the body, an experience, an innate response to loneliness. I do not regret it, but sometimes I tell people I did. Mostly because they do not deserve to know how extraordinary it was. And mine it was.

Down two klonopins with beer
Tuck yourself in & stare at the walls
You can't help but think,
"this is no different than all the nights I've tried to sleep sober"
"But this will be the last time"

Dying is perceptual.
People die all the time.
They stop answering their phones, they break old habits and take a different path to the closest bar.
They may even stop going to that bar altogether.
They do all of this while being re-born to other people.
Flesh against flesh,
A new home that rains honey in a thunderstorm.
There are no lightening bolts, you should know you struck them one too many times.
This is how you **** someone
And this is how you set them free

I fall in and out of love with people all the time,
like at 3 am when your eyes are opening and closing and your head rests softly against my chest and you can't see me with the lights off but we both know that this is when you know me best
This is when you whisper softly
This is when the world is quiet.
I've fallen out of love by morning,
hurrying to put my dress back on before you wake.

I don't think I know how to love people. At least not in the traditional sense. But what is traditional about love, except for the sheer mortality of it? There is no consistency, no textbook definition for how to act when faced with the wide spectrum of emotions that are evoked when you believe that someone finally fits your skin, even after all the holes you've burned
into it.
There are so many holes in my body.

"I've found you, I've found you,
I've found you."
"Now stay in me."

Consistency is the hard part. We are fast-paced creatures, going through lovers like cigarettes and knowing all too well that they'll burn out. Everything is a fix for boredom and this is why we never hold hands for long enough. Oscar Wilde wrote that life imitates art. Art is a form of creation, produced by it's very antithesis, destruction. Whether we are creating something that is intangible, such as ideologies, or building homes with our elbows deep in the wet earth, history has proven that we always have to destroy what came prior to it.
We are always re-creating ourselves. It is at the very basis of growth, and the overbearing weight of our crushing mortality only pushes us to do it as often as we can. It may seem as though we have not done enough, have not seen enough, have not been enough, but the inconsistency in our way of life only ensures that every new experience is a way of re-creating ourselves in fragments that are searching to become a whole. Now, you might be wondering, where does destruction come into play? Let's face it, there's no sugar coating the fact that we encounter far more dreadful experiences than favorable ones. Some are even so mundane that we'd rather not call them experiences at all, and thus end up forgetting that they ever occurred. But they did. And now I'm going to bring up the holes I mentioned earlier. The ones that get so large sometimes it feels as though you're going to slip right out of your skin. And that's what you want, but you know you can't do that literally (even though it sounds pretty on paper). These are the holes that make you use people without even realizing it. Or maybe you do, and you're sitting on your porch at night with a glass of wine and it's raining really hard out and it's too dark to see but you're writing about holes because you think you'll be able to make sense of them (tip: you won't). Whatever the case, I want you to imagine the following:

You meet a person and you find yourself leaning closer every time they speak, hoping that the sound of their voice will stay fixated in your brain if you listen hard enough. It's similar to the way we behave when we're trying to learn the lyrics to a song (reminder: you will get sick of this song and probably hate it if you listen to it enough times). Next thing you know, you're comparing their voice to the sound of soft rain or your favourite Drake song or whatever. And then their hands are so gentle you can hardly believe they're touching you, let alone making you *** or having you shout some really embarrassing stuff you'd be ashamed to admit to later on. Now you're both doing some really lame stuff like going for walks in the park or going grocery shopping and it just feels a lot less lame because they're there (tip: it's probably not). Then one day you get a text from them and you put it off for a few hours. This keeps happening until eventually the phone stops ringing and you don't miss the sound of it anymore. You don't think you know what happened, there are no hard feelings, but if you read enough books you know exactly what put a halt to that once-marvelous feeling that had you producing more metaphors for their skin than any of your high school English teachers could have prepared you for.
Life.
That's right, that terrifying, looming thing that's there to constantly remind you of your mortality. Life, that imitates art. Life, that encourages destruction in order to create. "Burn holes into your skin" it whispers, and there is no master of seduction like the threat of mortality. You know, just as I do, that if you would have stayed with that person who fit your skin so well you'd have no more holes left to fill.

Boredom is the Devil's play thing

I dislike quoting without reference almost as much as I have a distaste for human nature, but it is very late and I am at a loss for a better way to explain how it is deeply rooted inside of us, how it's in our wiring, to use other people as tools to fight off boredom. We, as a species, have always been bad at consistency- dissatisfied with routine, but experts at burning holes only to fill them again and again. We will **** to be reborn until mortality extends it's looming arm, and even then we will flirt with death for the sole purpose of having something to do.

A chameleon's ability to camouflage itself is a fear response. Something in its environment is detected as a threat, and instead of confronting it, it retreats and changes its colours. I am this way, too. I have been this way my entire life. The fear of not knowing who I am, of feeling as though I do not belong anywhere at all, has led me to change the very core of my being- again and again. I cannot stop this pattern. A pattern that is driven by boredom, the Devil's favourite play thing. If, like me, you're unequipped to deal with boredom (and it doesn't matter how many knives you have), you'll notice how quickly it's presence will mutate itself until it turns into a chronic emptiness. I spend most days trying to fill myself with anything at all, only to reach in a few hours later, grab whatever it was I deemed oh-so-interesting at the time, and hurl it right back to where it came from. My hands have grown tired and rough in the process.

The thing about spontaneous beginnings and rough endings is that they're often the same thing & I have been an abrupt ending ever since I could remember opening my eyes. I'm sorry you looked into them and saw something more than chaos, i was a slow burning fire and you were patient but unsuspecting. I'm so sorry. I don't deserve the patient ones. I am an abrupt ending, I am all endings, I am nerve endings exposed. I have never been a beginning. Let this be it and let it be without an apology.