He broke me ? Or rather, I let go.
But then packed it up again and put on the “everything is fine and we’re just friends who fuck” face…. I paused. I thought about it. I genuinely thought about saying something – but what? “Please stop fucking me so that I can have a moment which is intimate, not just physical?” S says that maybe I’ve conditioned him – that I’ve already dictated the behaviours and the standards of our “relationship” – that I was too hard to break in. And maybe I have – but I want to unwind it. Rewind it. I want to be friends. I want to hold hands walking down the street. I want to not cry when I write sentences like that last one.
Because that shouldn’t make someone cry.
I don’t actually know if he likes me.
I miss the catharsis that comes with crying hard enough to get to the tears that are the good ones. The ones that taste different. The ones that are release, not just pity. The ones that cleans, not just fall meaninglessly.
N wants to play tomorrow night. I’m terrified. I’m junky like jitters for the pain and the violence of it. And I’m sadness and heartbreak for the emptiness of it.
Oh well. It is what it is.
And I’m nothing if not consistent.