Intoxicated.

Where does the pain come from,
when everything is so shiny and perfect?

It’s almost as if I want to be sad.
and I keep asking myself, why can’t I heal?
Just let go, set myself free from all the scars and ghosts that haunt me?

And the answer is simple, really.
We love playing the victim. Or atleast I do.

There’s something intoxicating about the madness that courses through my veins every time I watch crimson flow down my cuts onto the bathroom floor.
There’s comfort in my deep, dark hole. I’m the only one who knows every nook and cranny down here. Nowhere else is safer.

When I was younger, I used to look in the mirror and wonder, who could ever love that face?
Growing up, I realised that it’s easier to lust after the face than to embrace the chaos.
Sometimes, I catch my reflection on the window of some passerby’s car, and I just loathe everyone who claims to love me.
Because no one even knows me.
Do you know what that feels like?
One word. Lonely.

I’m desperate to be understood but I won’t ever spill any of my secrets.
I want to be loved but I don’t ever let anyone close enough to look through the smokescreen.

I know I’m long gone before dawn and you wake up all alone.
But do you really think I care?
And yes, I know that I’m distant. But you’d get lost in a minute if I let you in my head.

I’m fucked up.
I’m jaded.

The pain sets me free.

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