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Here I am.

My fingers hover above the keyboard for a good few minutes before I get annoyed and shut the computer with some force.

 

I think I don’t like writing about myself, anymore. I think I’m getting sick of all of the used up feelings I’ve already felt. I try to recreate the good I’ve felt to make something beautiful and lovely and get me back there. But I can’t and I’m stuck in this rut with these feelings I have already felt.

 

Do you know what it’s like to feel used up? Do you know what that’s like, when you know (you know, you know, you know) that you’ve got so much longer to feel everything new and everything old and everything all over again?

 

I’ve had a conversation with a man who knew what it was like to hold his own life, shakily in the barrel of a gun. But he still didn’t know what it was like to be scared of living. I knew he didn’t fully understand when I told him about the pillow I almost didn’t get up from.

 

And I don’t scare myself anymore. Not really. I haven’t scared myself in a long time. Now I’m just so usual and predictable it makes me a little sick, instead.

 

I haven’t been bad in a while.

 

I think I almost miss it and how sick is that?

 

Not because it was fun. Or it “suited me” as I sometimes imply. Not because it was fucking pretty. It was never pretty.

 

It made me feel something, though.

 

Don’t get me wrong, I miss feeling good, too. I promise. But maybe I don’t want to feel good right now. Maybe after him and his goddamn loveliness, I don’t want to be happy because I don’t want that without him. It’s stupid and yeah, I’m fucking stupid sometimes.

 

I crave love like…
… yeah, like that.

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