Ruins

How do you stand within the entanglements of events and feelings, and still maintain a perfect sense of balance?

I'm quite lost in this sequence. This foggy, empty, and consuming mess.

I mean. Am I ever going to be able to take a step back and pinpoint the wrongs?



I already know.


Sex is addicting.

It lies to you and convinces you that, regardless of everything you are, in that tense arching of the back, in the quiet force of thrust, or in that moment of ecstasy, you are loved and wanted.

Lies are all titillating and alluring, it's the glossy candy to a child's heart, and it's the longing look from a passionless lover. You grasp in a knuckle-buldging manner, hurting from the sharpness of your nails, yet it escapes, reminding you of its nature.

Lies are empty. Useless. Detrimental.

The sweetness eventually vanishes, leaving a bad taste in your mouth; and the lover at long last looks away, mocking your acceptance.

I'm living a lie.

And that lie, though passive and sublime, is ever the same as any other.

It tramples. It ruins. It steps on the last bit of hope for happiness and then I can see who I am.

I am a liar.