What is left of me

My heart is about to burst, like the eyes of a bulldog out of its sockets. It aches. And all I can think of is reasons to make it feel special, like it aches better than anybody else's pain. But it doesn't. This is commonplace! Humdrum.
Curse of an artist. The soul! My voice! My anything, really.
I´m just so afraid of feeling lost again.

I need passion.

I thought I lost it years ago.

Consumed in withdrawl and absence.
And I couldn`t write anymore.

A replacement.

A prostetic limb.

A vessel. 

A nicer mirror than the ones I have home.

Either too much or barely nothing.

Viciously coersing for excitement.

Most men bore me to death.

I can't get horny without hearts at stake.

Wished my dildos had personalities.

My fingers hurt though.

I was self absorbed inside my tight skirt and high heels, entertaining a helpless missmatch - smiling his pride away. 

And THEN comes this bed haired motherfucker who feels like angelic voices singing the promisses of better days. Who somehow made my legs cross, my brain boil and my heart race until blood dissolved on my skin...

Since the god damn first...

No!

You are better than this Pamela.

You made your birth chart. You are meditatng. Your self love is stronger than ever.

You know better than this.

Too much confidence and repressed feelings.

A gimmick of a man.

You. Know. Better.

There's this enerving suspicion and emotional lurking in him. Like he's only ever confortable after you have fallen for him. 

I can't even complain! That's exactly what I've done my whole life.

I hate hunting the hunter.

I hate the underlying responsability of anowledging his anxieties in my own.

Lowering my bow and arrow and giving in to the ambivalence of a man too afraid to loose control.

Feels... endearing...
Yet terrifying!

He fetishizes vulnerability. Curing in this beautiful woman what he can't cure in himself.

How can one be so determined without being happy?

He has too much on his plate right now.

But what about me?

What about my "how are you today?"

I wished anything was more than just an eventual reminder of my inadequacy.

This "safe-zoned" conversations and flimsy flirtations that don't hold up to the next day.

Not even a kiss!
Is this how people felt in the past?

I can't fall for the appeal of challenge again.

No.
I want love burning me back like iron.

The aching of being so close you merge.

Desire flowing from the tears and scars.
Bond beyond social determinism and dialetic materialism.

A man who knows exactly why he wants me.

Fucking me.

Feasting on me.

Consuming me.

Reducing me to lust.

Pulsating through an open channel of trust and confidence.

He won't cut it. 

This...
This feels heavy.

Slow in a bad way.

"Too much on his plate right now".

Men like these live up to their own ideals.
But damn, maybe I do too.

Let us friend zone each other, until friendship dies out smothered by the weight of "practical".


Untill my eyes pierce your flesh again.

Bitch.