#borderline author

What is truth? This radical idea that there can be only one way of viewing a situation That there’s only cold hard facts and that somehow the majority of people agreeing makes that a cold hard fact in itself There’s a reality where he still loves me A reality where he still says goodnight, every night I’d rather have that delusion than the radical idea that he doesn’t speak to me anymore

He is poison, but I love him.  His toxicity seeps through my veins, destroying me, piece by piece. I ache from him and yet, I ache for him. Maybe that’s part of the fun. To love is to live and to to live is to die.

I fucked up. She fucked up and then I fucked up. This is nothing new to us. When you wear these masks, it messes with you. You can't trust yourself, how could you trust others? You can't. So you either lie or leave. You can't let anybody close, but you want everybody to think they are. You want that feeling of closeness, but the voices say it can't happen. They whisper about the ones who failed you, the ones who hurt you. They whisper about the ones you failed, the ones you hurt. And you want to run. Escape. Flee this emotional trap. I always have. I always ran and tried to bury my problems deeper, sure that this time they would not escape. But this time, I haven't. I'm scared, and vulnerable. I trusted her, and she failed me. But yet, I'm not running away. I'm running to her. I'm running to comfort her because how on earth could I just leave her? Is this what love feels like for paranoid sociopaths?