Iím intoxicated with pure infatuation. Itís something I love, but loathe.
 I'm still in love with you. It's something I can't fake, can't hide.

 I catch myself staring at you, noticing things that I haven't seemed to pay attention to for the entirety that you have been in my life.

Even though Iím staring, you never seem to hold my gaze. I have to remember your eye colour from photos and just plain memories, because you hardly ever look at me anymore.

They were brown. Brown like the old tree we used to hover under and stare at the flames. I would watch the orange and red flickers dance around in your irises, just hoping that your passion towards me would dance the same way. Your eyes were brown like anything I could have ever hoped for.

And I just want to see them again.

I donít care if I show up to school on time anymore. I donít care if I eat or shower or do anything, because anything I do, doesnít involve you. I find myself hovering over your contact name, just wondering if I should press the call button just so I can hear your voice once more.

Iíve become unacquainted with my body, and Iíve become so shockingly unmotivated and disinterested. Iím slowly dissociating with reality, because you were my reality.
 You were my reality.
You were my reality.

My earth is shattering like thousands of marbles being hurled at the pavement that was once coated in an array of pastel streaks and memorable moments.
Itís like Iím playing hopscotch on glass shards while everything around me is screaming to keep going.

Itís like I lost the last thread that tied me down to this earth.

But this isnít how itís supposed to be, you see.

Love isnít supposed to keep me up at night clutching my t-shirt that faintly smells of you.
Love doesnít put you in a cycle of getting high and staring at the ceiling.
Love doesnít make you dig razors into your forearm
Love doesnít make the blood drip down your arm and onto your old t-shirt that you got from him.
Love doesnít cripple your entire being.
Love doesn't decorate your throat with a pretty little rope and strap you to the ceiling
Love doesn't kick away the old creaky chair as youíre suspended in the air, struggling.

This isnít love.
This isnít love.

This is just me
Telling you
That I miss you.

Itís toxic and itís painful
But baby, bring on the abuse
I like the scarring of my skin
And I donít mind a little hurt
Every now and then.

I donít think Iím in love with you.
I think Iím in love with the idea of someone
mistreating and hating me
As much as I hate myself.
Written by ChemicalRose (Meguana)
Author's Note
If you're ever reading this... just know that you're just another line in my traveling song. Thanks for stripping me of my screws and letting the life leak out of me.

Even with my glasses, I couldn't see
Just how toxic
He was for me.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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