And for just this once, I felt free.

I can be a sap sometimes

I am a walking contradiction. As much as I like to be hurt, I also wonder what it’s like to be cared for and do all the cute things people who aren’t like me do. For example- there is this lake by where I live and the only thing I really want to do right now is spend a day with someone I care about there. I don’t care what we do, hell we could end up doing some stuff, but I just want to share my favorite spot with someone other than myself. I want to take someone through the path and passionately kiss them while leaning against a tree. I want to lay in the grass and stare at the clouds or stars, I want to sit on the dock and talk about life and our experiences. And cuddle. And make out. And be happy, like really happy for once.

Sadly, I don’t ever see this happening.

Wants.

I want to be used like I’m not a person of worth. I want to see rage instead of compassion, and harsh tones instead of soft coos. I want to be slapped around, spat on, made to feel less like a human and more like a piece of trash. I want to be kicked, punched, threatened; I want to be afraid. I want to make  both of our darkest fantasies come alive, because I want to know what it’s like to suffer. I want to be left on the floor crying as you walk away. I want your hands around my throat stealing the life from me. I want to be all the different shades of blue, purple, green and yellow by the time you are done with me. I want my head pulled back with a knife at my throat as threats are whispered in my ear or as you dig your teeth into my flesh. Yet, sometimes, I have the desire to be held and to be shown what being intimate means. Because in a way, intimacy terrifies me just as much as the above does, maybe even more. Sometimes I long to just lose myself in the motion of movements that two people between (or above) the sheets share. And yes, sometimes, I do crave a passionate kiss over the feeling of flesh being torn from my bones.

Sometimes I wonder if I want too much.

I am a monster.

I often find myself at the crossing where disappointment and regret meet. I credit Ben Gibbard for pretty much documenting my life in song before I really started to live it. I regret a vast majority of what comes out of my mouth, yet I am either disappointed that I didn’t speak up or I’m unhappy with the outcome when I do. For this reason, I tend to keep my mouth shut and bottle things up in carefully labeled jars in my mind. You can call me crazy, most do, but it’s how I operate. I’m a self-described walking awkward moment waiting to happen, simply because I don’t know how to fully comprehend social situations and most of the time I can’t tell if people really want my company or not. However, I fear for those who do want my company.

You see, I am a monster. I destroy everything and everyone that crosses my path. I am a master of self-destruction, ruining all the good that has come into my life. I do so because I don’t know what happiness is, or if I’m truly capable of feeling it. It’s pathetic, but the truth. The idea that anyone can get close to me to the point where they can see my insecurities, my hopes, my dreams, and what makes me tick- is a joke. I find that any lasting relationship I’m in I try to destroy before they can destroy me, because that’s how the story ends. There are no knights to rescue me from the tallest tower of the dilapidated castle, no horse to ride into the sunset on, and most importantly, there are no happily ever afters in my story. I stopped wishing on a shooting star that someone would break into the tower and sweep me off my feet many moons ago.

I am a monster, not by choice- but because I have to be to survive.