i want a lover i don't have to love
He fucking hates heroin addicts. He hates the way they look so alert, so alive. The way they make him feel paranoid just staring with pupils dilated and unfocused like some kind of animal lost and confused. He hates the way they're hot, then cold, and the fact that after a few minutes it feels like he's fucking a corpse that's gone from being the most eager woman in the world to a zoned out hooker who won't give two shits about whether or not he comes inside her, because the women at the clinic already know her by name.
He hates the way she looked like an angel twenty minutes ago, the way he couldn't push the thought of those pretty painted nails against his back from his mind, the way he's more concerned now about whether or not humans can spread disease through scratches like haggard feral cats. He hates the way he's not high with her, and the way that seeing her arm curled close to his head littered with scarring track marks reminds him that it'd be a bad idea to join in the fun.
He hates the way it doesn't change a goddamn thing, because he's still there, still twisted in her sheets, still not planning to quit anytime soon. He hates the fact that tonight they're lovers, and how fucked up it is that she'll keep thinking that even after he's gone because all that "lovers" means to her is a free ride from the man who, come tomorrow, will be little more than the dick that left her without so much as a number.
More than anything he hates that he doesn't care, the way she's too fucked up to care whether or not he does, and how when he looks back he won't have hated any of it at all.