Meet my sickness
My sickness. It makes me feel lonely, it convinces me I have nobody who cares for me, no one who loves me, and that the only way to feel connected or loved to someone, is to fuck them. Touch me, kiss me, lick and suck me. But we aren’t having sleepovers tonight. And we never will, and you don’t think about me unless I’m riding you. My sickness. It makes me do things that will make me increasingly unhappy. Like having unsafe sex with someone, who will actually never love me. I want touch, but I want love more, but I lie about that part because it’s easier. It makes me draw blood and seek and wait for that tingling rush of pleasure that crawls over my skin. It makes me things that out myself in danger, like standing on the ledge of the rooftop looking down. Just to fall off backwards. Crash. Smashing my head on the ground.