Some part of me wanted you to use me…part of me wanted you to chew me up and spit me out on a rusted platter. I think it was because I wanted a reason to never stop thinking about you. I wanted an excuse for you to forever haunt me. Some kind of purpose in that fucked up misery is what was keeping me afloat in my own head. The only way I can describe to you this kind of feeling though is through the words of bad poetry.
The feeling when my stomach is sick.
You’re metal grinding against my teeth,
and you’re every cold , brutal winter.
You’re a tumor in my brain,
and the life inside my pill box.
You’re the very reason I won’t wake up tomorrow.
…except I will wake up tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. I’ll never stop this sickness. I’ll never stop clinging to the words you spat at me. You probably are doing fine. I can only assume because you avoid the very thought of me. I don’t blame you. I am a pathetic excuse of a human being. An empty paper sack. But even so that drives me insane. It drives me more towards digging up every inch of facts I can on you. I want to taste you, feel you. I am obsessed.