every time he told me he misses me, misses how i smell like vanilla, misses watching horror movies with me, misses me putting his head on my chest and caress him, misses smooching that stupid mole in my thigh - i'm stoked. i can't think. i hate it. i hate you and how you managed to keep me in your life. i want my freedom back, yet, i want you. i want you to be less bastard than you were yesterday.
i don't want to fall in love with my images of you.
please stop thinking that it's okay to hurt me, bruise me and make me cry again. it's not.
what you love here is a woman, not a fucking hole, not a punching sack.
5.11.09
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