Their names change. Their faces.
But the pattern, it inevitably repeats. Because I don’t change.
I keep building my house of cards.
I like my adrenaline rush with a side of cortisol please.
I don’t know any other way.
And yet there is a tiny seedling within me that wants something different.
sweep me off my mother fucking feet and I was suppose to traverse into some fairy-tale and live happily ever after.
They lied and
I bought it.
Fact is there is no fucking fairy tale. No white night. And happy ever after? Pfffft …..the closest I’ve ever come to it
was numbing out my pain in fantasy, booze, weed, or other escapist activities.
My two greatest defense mechanisms have always been humor and intellectualization. I hide behind them like great steel gates.
The authentic me? who the fuck even know what that is anymore. who the fuck knows if I’d even be recognizable to myself, or even be likable?
What do I see in the fucking ink blot?
Oh yeah……..fucking rainbows and sunshine you assholes.
Even though I see black, death, blood.
Oh but I know the ” right” answers.
That’s the problem.
I know what you want me to say.
but at the end of the day….. I still can’t find my way out a fucking emotional paper bag.