Masochist

Every time I see you, I die a little more inside.

…And I want to change and I want to forget and I want to move on.

But then again, not really.

It’s this wicked masochistic pleasure, I guess. Wanting you and knowing I’ll never have you. Because I couldn’t. Because I wouldn’t. Because I bleed.

Impure.

Every time I see you, I die a little more inside. But it’s okay because it keeps reminding me of all the things that I’m not allowed to do.

*Iz