Author Miss Parisia B.
I have found more love in pain than I have discovered through your well-intentioned, good for nothing ways of “attempting” to love me. You’re more exhausting than being ignored. Torture caresses me more softly than your warm embrace. God forbid I scratch your surface, and you’ll bleed out all over me. However, I can’t get you to choke me hard enough. For years, I have been trying to write about our love but found it too dull to make a debut in my public memoir. I hope it doesn’t tear you apart to know that I much rather be torn apart then politely kiss you goodnight.
Your reality doesn’t allow anyone else to feel, you selfishly hoard every emotion and punish anyone who dares behave the same as you. Some days I want to scream in your face and damn you to hell, knowing you will be lying gracefully like an excellent little girl right beside me. That’s what you expect of me, isn’t it? Instead, I swallow my words and withhold eye contact, and you condemn me to sleep alone.
Love is somewhat of a twisted mindfuck. When you are alone in a stranger’s bed, you do nothing but gasp for air, drowning, and dying to be discovered and wanted. But there is something so unruly about someone who dedicates their life to understanding you and then has the nerve to think they know even an inch of who you are.
YOU DON’T KNOW ME.