To those who listen:
I can’t stop thinking about Johnny which is nothing new, but I keep wondering if I’d actually go, if I’d be better there, or if I’d still feel this listless wanting biting into my skin as each day pecks by, minutes on clocks forever rounding into the next mundane moment. Would it be different? Would he love me like I imagine or has our spell broken so long ago that what we are is only memory and dust?
So I’ve been thinking about Johnny. And other things.
Like could that love I need be buried in someone else’s heart? Like that guy across the room or on the other side of the world. Maybe that love is behind eyes I’ve known for years or ones I’ve only just met. Is he younger or older, tall or short? Does he work hard and hold doors? Or is he Marine tough and sweet besides?
I wonder because I know that love is not here. And that’s a terrible thing to know after so many years of living here on this lie I told from day one.
I’m a bastard and I know it. And I can’t stop being a bastard, can’t stop wanting, no, needing things that make me so.
This is one of the reasons I need therapy. One of so many reasons.