Maybe I like being abused.

Maybe I like being in the dark vacuum of your pain.

Maybe I don’t feel loved unless I’m being used.

Maybe I like trying to balance on the turning tables of your deception.

Maybe I like the taste of poison…

The way it burns and the slow death shows no compassion.

I’ve tried to fight fire with fire.

Fight your fire with ice.

Smother it.

Extinguish it.

But I get left because you’re always right.

But I think I might like the ride.

I tell myself being poisoned feels alright.

It’s better than feeling nothing at all.

Why do I need good days and me time?

To be content and sit home and write.

These rhymes about love and passion

Mean nothing if I’m alone every night.

When did I become so weak?

It’s a perpetual cycle that doesn’t seem to end.

I wish I could press restart and try again.