Impulse drives me mad, telling me I want something I really don’t just for the sake of having it, of feeling it, of feeling something. All for the eagerness and the desire of wanting what I can’t have or shouldn’t have or already had but so desperately insist I need again. And the word “need” rolls over in my mind like its hypnotizing some part of me that I never realized I had. And I probably don’t, it’s probably not even real. And so I try so hard to drill into my skull that I only think a certain way because I’m fucked up and that my forehead only tastes of dried blood so that when they kiss me they’ll know that it’s real. But then I wonder why softness is so eloquently undesired. I want good and kind and yet I crave pain and agony and drenched bundles of wet eyes and gallons of blood that I want to see spilled across the sidewalk in my name. And they’d know I’d like that, like some secret confession of love only we’d understand. Let me see how much blood you can draw from me and I’ll be able to meticulously calculate how much our love must mean. Always ours, never mine, I could never take single responsibility for loving so shallowly. Until they’re banging on my door and I start to wonder why I place my own hand on the cutting board and then stare at astonishment when it’s sliced into pieces. Do I like the imagery of pain but not the reality of it all? Do I like the way her fingers trace my skin up and down before she digs her nails like daggers under my veins? Do I like the helpless calm as I plead with bare silence for her to stop? Or do I like the idea that she too only likes the image of pain, but not the reality of it? And so I’m shocked when I watch her eyes light up at the way my bloody hands dig into pieces of glass she left shattered underneath me, in my bed, alongside her silhouette. And yet it’s funny how we insist things aren’t real just because they leave intangible marks on our bodies of forgotten teeth marks and sexual encounters. And I wonder why I want so badly something that is so devastating to even the worst of souls. I confuse myself with lyrics she wished she wrote herself and books I obsess over trying to find parts of her in each page. And I sit here and wonder why I am so intent on something that is so content on burying me, holding me under some earth so my screams won’t surface, so that I no longer recognize what pain even sounds like. Is it masochism or desire, is it a want for a lack of freedom only a broken heart can bring about? Do I like feeling caged in and watched so I no longer have to claim my thoughts as my own? Or do I simply want what I can’t have because actually holding a heart that loves me back is too promising to consider? Do I have to prove I am lovable enough to even myself, is this my way of proving I am wanted? Is this my way of loving me?