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A mixture of sweet and... fuck.

Maybe it's naive and vain to think anyone understands this. Maybe it's just my self importance winning out, maybe it's just pure delusion.
I don't know. All of my talk about what I want. What does anyone want from me? That's the answer to this right now. Am I the answer? I know this, or I think I do. I could be mistaken, and it wouldn't be the first time. Even ten minutes ago, I was wrong.
I keep holding out for the little bits you give me, the ones that I can remember. I love those the most. I let myself keep them for a little while, then I have to destroy them, or file them away where I can't get to them here.
I have to stop counting the nights I don't sleep with bears. I wonder how many secrets I can hold, this thing can hold, before it bursts.
I have never wanted that kind of picture, but I can feel now the draw of having a visual.
When I talk about the things I do, it serves only as an illustration, and not as a weapon. My perversion runs as deep as wanting instructions, an X rated screen play, to the acts I should commit. I want a witness. I want it to hurt, it reminds me that I am alive and not subject to how everyone else lives. I want to cry, in joy or in pain, I don't know which, and I'm not sure if I care right now. I just want you to see. But I don't want to hurt you in an unforgivable way, just enough so that I will always be there.

7:31 p.m. - 2013-01-14


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