I’m not in love, but this shit is still going to hurt like hell.
Don’t you know that I live with a love addiction that grips my brain and squeezes every matter out of it? Don’t you know that my head is in the clouds? I come down once in a while to pretend to live, to pretend to belong.
There are love loops in my head after two seconds with a man I connect with, change my life, wife, knife zombies together, stay with you until the end of the world.
I’m not in love, but this shit is going to hurt like hell. I can feel your hands pressing all over me, the same ones that split my heart through my chest.
Drain that blood until I’m weak for you. That’s how I like it.
Then I crawl and gather guts and bones to create myself again. That’s why I don’t do casual very well. My light, being, force, wild beast of a feral woman scavenges.
She scavenges hearts and feeds on their pieces. I keep her on an iron chain, scrapping, choke, collar, rope. She’s good at suffering through pain. Maybe I don’t feed her enough of my love, but she doesn’t seem to have a taste for it. Instead, she burrows in the dark, in the wet shadow of the first lover that feeds her scraps.
Sometimes she wanders, searching for God knows what, and there I am, left to find her. Weeks, months later, starving. I can’t even recognize her. I only hear her deep beast screams. I try to lure her back to me to no avail.
She wasn’t even in love, but that shit still hurt like hell.
She’s a love addict. She lets lovers spit in her face, piss in her hair, and rub it in while taunting, “Your love’s not wanted.” She’s lost her mind, crazy, rabid, seething.
Poor girl, I watch her dance in euphoria, throwing her clothes to the wild, still begging for his heart, still accepting his leftover pieces. She’s hooked, then dependent, drugged up on fake love, then pulling back, in bed for days, sweats, nausea, the bile of withdrawal into relapse.
She’s not talking much these days, she only feels and knows this shit hurts like hell, but she’s always made it through, though a little more empty, brick-walled, fenced, barbwired and fortressed. Cold, now they say she’s too cold.
And here I am, always trying to save her, trying to chisel away at her walls before she disappears. So you see, we’re both never really here. One’s avoiding while the other is healing.
We don’t do casual anything very well. We are intense, bring down heaven, raise hell women who are light-bearers, protectors, and gatekeepers of warrior hearts in a world that is darkening.
We’re not in love, but this shit is still going to hurt like hell. Our love encompasses something more significant, but here we are, wanting to love everyone else, wanting to heal others, when we must first love and heal ourselves.The irony of fighting this love addiction.