I'd drown myself in just enough liquor
for you to use me again—
and still, I'd come back,
because in your bed,
...
You think fear defines you.
You don't allow yourself to explore the depths where you might drown.
Maybe it's a trauma you can't overcome,
maybe you just can't do it alone,
...
Another illusion, I wondered.
What are you, really?
I don't know in which direction to think about you.
How do I force myself to do what's right—
...
In my free time, I write how I felt at certain moments)
Every Time
I'd drown myself in just enough liquor
for you to use me again—
and still, I'd come back,
because in your bed,
I found something that felt like peace.
Somewhere along the way,
I stopped chasing flesh alone.
My priorities shifted.
I surrendered the dreams I once clung to,
realizing they led down a road without an end.
What is love, anyway?
Each soul writes its own version.
Is it hidden in the quietest details—
a peculiar walk,
odd habits no one else notices,
the curve of your lips,
an ocean within your eyes,
a universe spinning inside your mind,
the way you care in passing moments,
the devotion, the sacrifice,
the lingering trace of your perfume?
I need nothing else.
Each time I pass your street,
my gaze drifts your way,
without even meaning to.
And I get it now—
it's not a habit.
It's hunger.
It's longing,
the kind that lives deep beneath the skin.
I'd come to you—
but I can't go to war with myself