self-gratifying love

the sound of sex pistols though her worn out earbuds was almost sickening. she could feel her mascara stuck on her cheeks, stinging her skin, a jeering reminder of how much her own tears hurt. she could hear her own sobs, the sounds of a longing to belong, to be held — yet they didn't sound like her. was she even watching herself? or had she turned into a simple stranger, one whose eyes were unfamiliar, empty, begging?

she just wanted someone to love her, to cradle her broken heart in their hands. had she not found refuge in the arms of others, comfort in the sound of their beating hearts and bare skin? yet it was all lies she had told herself to soothe herself. oh, but how good it felt to believe those lies, to believe someone cared for her. how good it had felt to cry in their arms.

love made her sick. did they love who she really was, with her bruised smile that hid a longing for arms to run to, hands to hold? did they love the way she laughed at their jokes, shared a tender smile? did they love the way her embrace felt, the way her gentle mouth kissed their lips? did they love the way her dresses fit against her body? did they love the way she could fill their empty hearts?

she was so lonely it hurt to cry. she was lonely each time she found herself cooking for a love that would never return home. she was lonely each time she found herself reaching out for a cigarette box left behind by one she never loved. she was lonely each time she opened her heart to love, only to regret it. the loneliness felt so good as long as she knew she was loved.