Dear Lust,
It feels like I crave you more and more,
as the nights pass.
I can’t believe that you have such a hold on me,
but this has become a reality.
I guess that I have to accept the fact,
the very fact that I am not perfect,
there is always someone better,
I can never look sufficient in my own eyes.
I dream that I could live on that long mile of road,
the same one where people make their name right,
their name becomes a self defining term,
but who am I really?
I am sure I could ask anyone on the street.
No one would know.
No one would even care.
It’s all because of you,
you make me useless,
you make me see potential in others,
and offer none for myself.
I can’t stand my image.
I can’t stand my face.
I just want to walk these streets,
not knowing where I would go.
Some living nightmare.
I can never be complete.
I can never see the light of day.
I break mirrors,
just so I cant see myself.
I crack my windows,
so I can remain cold.
Unwanted.
Self-loathing.
Fretting in my own image.
As if I am the horror movie.
I can never be what I want to be.
I can never feel whole.
I can never ever see my face.
I can never go home.
