You're all wrong for me and I know it.
I know that you're addiction for my touch is stronger.
More manipulating than the hallucinations you craved.
You depended on H but now you look to me.
When you look at me you salivate, anticipate.
Your softly rough touch, grazing my cheek, then grasping at my hair you pull.
You pull me out of your trance and back on my rag doll feet.
It is both the pain and pleasure that radiate around.
It radiates around the tragic blessing.
The paradoxical reminder of just how wrong you are for me.
Of how it is yet could never be.
Lessons of soul and what it means to be free.
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