Maybe I put too much blame on you. Maybe the blame should be on the circumstances, hell, maybe the blame should be on me. I’m the one who keeps coming back for it. Maybe it’s not for the love, maybe it’s because something inside of me needed this. The insecurities that have long since turned to hate have shamed me. Again and again, I’ve run from this pain only to return upon a whirlwind of fantasy and find myself on my knees, a fire before me. Embers burn and glow in my eyes and I am transfixed by this fire you cannot see. The sense of desperation you impart beckons me into the flames if only I could be brave enough to burn.
Well, maybe this is hell season. Maybe there was just no other way for me. Maybe if your love was easy, if there was no struggle for your affections I would be in blissful ignorance resting upon the laurels that soothe me with the fallacy that I am enough. Maybe that security would have stunted me, made me soft. Maybe I’m sick for coming back to this place that makes me hate myself, but here I am in the fucking fire and I’m getting real comfortable now. I don’t know how long this will take but I’m starting to like it. The shame has burned away and the fire rages farther inside forging steel guts and thick skin slick with vim. Am I worthy now? Don’t answer, I’m not done here. If I needed to burn like this, then you were well worth the pain but it doesn’t mean I have to thank you for it.