Therein Lies the Self-Loathing
Dear Addicts of the World,
Today I am in the process of realizing(though have not fully come to this conclusion just yet) that I am not enough to fix you. I can not be your drug, I can not be your booze, I can not be your sex, I can not be your virtual reality and I can not be your escape. I can show you how to run, I can put your legs through the motions, gripping tightly to your body with my persistence, but I can not give you direction. I can take you to the top of the world and point your head in the direction of your minuscule worries, can prop your eyes open with my words, but I can not make you see. I can illustrate the small beauties, like a toothless grin,like an abandoned apple dropped sharply in the fresh spring grass, like an airport embrace. I can paint these things with my heart, my soul, my passion, but I can not bring you to life. I can drive you in circles, meaninglessly, while your head tries to sort through it's problems, but I can not untie you. I can tell you that everything will be okay, but as I take another drag on my cigarette, penning you these words, I can not make myself believe it.
I was never enough for you. I am not enough for you. I will never, and can not, be enough for you. Therein lies my insecurities. All I've ever wanted was to fix my father for my mother. All I've ever wanted was to see you smile, sober. All I've ever wanted was to erase pain and, if not that, then to give people the power to cope. All I've ever wanted was to finally be enough for someone.
But I am not. Because your addictions are stronger than you, than me, than pain. My addictions are hiding within yours, because every time you call me, drunk again, I find solace in the fact that you were thinking of me, that you needed me in spite of your stupor.
I need you to need your addictions.
And therein lies the self loathing.
With, or with out, love,
Bug
Today I am in the process of realizing(though have not fully come to this conclusion just yet) that I am not enough to fix you. I can not be your drug, I can not be your booze, I can not be your sex, I can not be your virtual reality and I can not be your escape. I can show you how to run, I can put your legs through the motions, gripping tightly to your body with my persistence, but I can not give you direction. I can take you to the top of the world and point your head in the direction of your minuscule worries, can prop your eyes open with my words, but I can not make you see. I can illustrate the small beauties, like a toothless grin,like an abandoned apple dropped sharply in the fresh spring grass, like an airport embrace. I can paint these things with my heart, my soul, my passion, but I can not bring you to life. I can drive you in circles, meaninglessly, while your head tries to sort through it's problems, but I can not untie you. I can tell you that everything will be okay, but as I take another drag on my cigarette, penning you these words, I can not make myself believe it.
I was never enough for you. I am not enough for you. I will never, and can not, be enough for you. Therein lies my insecurities. All I've ever wanted was to fix my father for my mother. All I've ever wanted was to see you smile, sober. All I've ever wanted was to erase pain and, if not that, then to give people the power to cope. All I've ever wanted was to finally be enough for someone.
But I am not. Because your addictions are stronger than you, than me, than pain. My addictions are hiding within yours, because every time you call me, drunk again, I find solace in the fact that you were thinking of me, that you needed me in spite of your stupor.
I need you to need your addictions.
And therein lies the self loathing.
With, or with out, love,
Bug