The Wilting

POEM IV.

i don't think love is the right word i'd use for her. i don't love her and i don't like her, but i feel something for her and it's very strong. i don't have a name for it - i don't have a name for a lot of things. half of my feelings are enigmas, but i can describe a few.

i suppose i got addicted to her. for a very long time, she was the only excitement in my life. with her, i climbed a ferris wheel, i ran through dark city streets under christmas lights, i wore black lipstick and bought high heels. days spent with her are pure adrenaline, but they also hurt. being around her hurts me, because she's a rose with sharp thorns i've been cut on too many times. she's poison that tastes like honey.

i think i was just. . . cold. and she was a wildfire. i would feel drawn to her, drawn to flickering embers and warmth, and then i'd get burned. i'd keep burning myself, over and over, because it's better than feeling so cold.