With each passing fuck, I find the way in which i operate to be comical. I want it but I don’t. I need him but not really. “Fuck guys, I just wanna dance.”
And then…night falls. Like clockwork, all of my gung-ho inhibitions blindly wave the white flag. This of course leads to the inevitable which brings me back to the dance floor sans dude, sans a moon.
I keep having the urge to burn one, slowly.
Rekindling the fire of an old flame of a habit against my insatiable appetite for pleasure has easily become the newest form of inner torture to date.
I feel as though I am going crazy and can’t do very much to prevent it except for sleep naked with a tear stained pillow.
Don’t be mistaken, those are tears of joy.
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