I get it now.
The drinking
The writing
The addiction
It feels good to write intoxicated.
I feel free
Uninhibited
And yet I’m lucky
I don’t have the addiction bug
Like my father
Like my brother
Like all the men in my family
Is it a man thing?
I don’t know
But I’m lucky
I know when to stop
Thank god
Or the devil
For skipping me
I appreciate it.
So I’ve been called a sadist.
But I’d like to describe it more as
A controllist.
I like to believe I have the upper hand.
But what this person doesn’t know
Is this is my wall talking.
He doesn’t know I’m full of shit
He doesn’t see me crumble
in therapy
Or cry with joy from being loved for three years by the most forgiving man I’ve ever met.
He doesn’t know me.
He tried to pull that perceptive card,
But I’ve met his like before.
Confident on the outside
Insecure on the inside.
Like all of us.
So don’t tell me, you can read me.
Because I know you’re no fly on the wall.
You’re just like every other psychology cock sucker thinking you’re the next Freud.
So bye boy.
Walking on egg shells
Tip
Toe
Tip
Toe
My mind rewinds
Plays
Rewinds
Plays
Will she understand my intention?
Or
Will she be offended?
I feel like I’m trying to create a relationship with a social media troll
Hush now
Be sensitive
The egg shells may crack
