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You, my dear, keep me humble. You always urge me to do better, you push me to be more. I wouldn’t be here without you.
I know I can always count on you through the good and bad times; not only because you've promised over and over again to never leave me. It’s ‘till death do us part, baby. We have a closeness other people just can't comprehend; trying to explain it to them is futile. But we know the truth. We know us.
It's how I get messages from you throughout the day, just to remind me you're there. And you like to change things up - sometimes it's little notes on my appearance, or the merits of my career, or how comforting nihilism is.
You and me, we’re partners in crime. By that I mean, you really get me thinking about committing crimes. But only low-key ones like public intoxication & prostitution.
And oh, man, the way you talk dirty to me: so filthy, degrading and sure. I can’t stop thinking about it at work, on the train, during dinners with friends. It drives me insane.
I’ve never experienced this kind of intimate passion before. You ignite every ounce of me, and because of that, I can’t imagine being happy with anyone else. When I’m alone with you, nothing and no one else matters, like the outside world never existed at all. With you, I’m a cliché come to life.
When you leave, I’m left reeling from the sudden whirlwind experience of you, sweeping me off my feet and knocking the breath out of me. And when you return, it’s like you never left. Like you’ve been here my whole life. My baby, there’s no comfort like you stealing my breath away like you want to suffocate me.
Today, as always in the dead of winter, you beg me back into bed and wrap me in your strong arms. Locked in embrace, my back to your chest. You embracing me, embracing myself.
Title: A love letter to my self-loathing
I know I can always count on you through the good and bad times; not only because you've promised over and over again to never leave me. It’s ‘till death do us part, baby. We have a closeness other people just can't comprehend; trying to explain it to them is futile. But we know the truth. We know us.
It's how I get messages from you throughout the day, just to remind me you're there. And you like to change things up - sometimes it's little notes on my appearance, or the merits of my career, or how comforting nihilism is.
You and me, we’re partners in crime. By that I mean, you really get me thinking about committing crimes. But only low-key ones like public intoxication & prostitution.
And oh, man, the way you talk dirty to me: so filthy, degrading and sure. I can’t stop thinking about it at work, on the train, during dinners with friends. It drives me insane.
I’ve never experienced this kind of intimate passion before. You ignite every ounce of me, and because of that, I can’t imagine being happy with anyone else. When I’m alone with you, nothing and no one else matters, like the outside world never existed at all. With you, I’m a cliché come to life.
When you leave, I’m left reeling from the sudden whirlwind experience of you, sweeping me off my feet and knocking the breath out of me. And when you return, it’s like you never left. Like you’ve been here my whole life. My baby, there’s no comfort like you stealing my breath away like you want to suffocate me.
Today, as always in the dead of winter, you beg me back into bed and wrap me in your strong arms. Locked in embrace, my back to your chest. You embracing me, embracing myself.
Title: A love letter to my self-loathing
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