Music: “Hollow Heart”, n.Lannon

I have no idea what love is. Everytime i feel it, it disappears. All that’s left is pain.

So, is love just another word for pain? A trap we set for ourselves by believing it can exist for more than a moment?
If that’s love, then i want nothing to do with it.

Yet some small, whispery voice in me keeps telling me not to give up - that giving up is the real trap…
The thing is, i know how slim my chances are. I don’t fall in love like a normal person, and i don’t love normal people. Perhaps that sounds silly, but i am fully aware of what a freak i truly am. And the sorts of freaks i tend to fall for.

It’s not exactly a recipe for success…
I just want to be real with someone.

Meanwhile, i can’t sleep.
Building your heart back up after it’s been burned down to nothing is tiring work, and it’s taking a toll on me. My confidence is shattered by what he did - and how he did it. I feel like i still have *her* somehow inside me…and i can’t scrub that deep inside myself.

I wonder how long it will take to purge all this out of my system.

My usual way of dealing with this sort of thing (yeah right, like it happens all the time - it’s been fucking years, and i’m totally unequipped now. It’s not like riding a bike. It’s awful every single time, because it’s different every single time)…anyway in the past i’ve just closed myself off and not let anyone get near enough to even ask me out on a date for months and months; last time i was this hurt i was celibate for 2 years.
At the time, maybe it’s what i needed to do.
I think this time, i want to do things differently. Because i want nothing more than to just close myself up again, go into turtle-mode and hide. So maybe what i need to do is the opposite.

Well, as “opposite” as someone like me is capable of…
But i get approached by a lot of men - maybe i should go on a bloody date with the next interesting person who asks. Maybe it will get him out of my system faster. Because it’s been a week, and already i can barely stand to be around myself anymore. All i do is think about his face. All i write about is him. Every dance i begin to choreograph is about him.

It has to stop, because it’s not doing me any damn good. I’ve written all i can write, anything more is just redundant.

And nobody will see *these* particular dances. Not yet, anyway.

I need to keep moving. I need to move on.
I need to stop picking scabs and let him fade away into just another scar.

Just.