(no subject)
Love is poison, and I have drank far too much.
I hate that death is not an option. How could it be? Instead, I must forever carry the irreparable damage that love inflicts upon my being.
It began with my parents. I loved them, and my love for them allowed them to repeatedly hurt me. I loved my mother, but she loved oxycontin and a whole pharmacy of other drugs more. Her preference for numbness left me numb, as my love for her was never welcomed with a smile and tearful eyes, but with droopy eyes, a collection of drool at the corner of her mouth, and a slew of harsh words emerging on the days when alcohol was needed to compliment the pills.
Then, I began to love others. Being queer, the focal point of my love was men, typically of the heterosexual persuasion. As to be expected, I always took the back seat to girlfriends. I never received the love that I felt I gave to them, so I stopped loving because unrequited love is more torturous than burning to death.
I thought I found it again, but I don't know. It has done nothing more than make me vulnerable to pain. I wish that I could reclaim those glorious feelings that I once had, but I fear that they shall never return.
Why does love have to be so hard? What did I do wrong? I want to know love; both as the giver and the recipient.
I don't want to die without it.
I hate that death is not an option. How could it be? Instead, I must forever carry the irreparable damage that love inflicts upon my being.
It began with my parents. I loved them, and my love for them allowed them to repeatedly hurt me. I loved my mother, but she loved oxycontin and a whole pharmacy of other drugs more. Her preference for numbness left me numb, as my love for her was never welcomed with a smile and tearful eyes, but with droopy eyes, a collection of drool at the corner of her mouth, and a slew of harsh words emerging on the days when alcohol was needed to compliment the pills.
Then, I began to love others. Being queer, the focal point of my love was men, typically of the heterosexual persuasion. As to be expected, I always took the back seat to girlfriends. I never received the love that I felt I gave to them, so I stopped loving because unrequited love is more torturous than burning to death.
I thought I found it again, but I don't know. It has done nothing more than make me vulnerable to pain. I wish that I could reclaim those glorious feelings that I once had, but I fear that they shall never return.
Why does love have to be so hard? What did I do wrong? I want to know love; both as the giver and the recipient.
I don't want to die without it.