I love you because it hurts to. Because you kill me. And nothing makes me feel more alive than dying.
I’m starting to see something divine in that. You will never be who I need you or want you to be, and that somehow makes it better. Gives me peace. Because that’s who I am to him. I am the one who falls down, runs away, slaps his face. Then begs for help. I am the one who can never be the man he wants me to be. But just once, I swear, I wish I could say that I even tried to be.
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2 comments:
I hope you never stop writing. Right, ok!
Well written article.
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