why do we have sex? admit it. it stops being a matter of numbers. nobody really cares about how many people you have fucked. it's nothing cool in feeling cheap.
and it's not love, because i don't want to be in a relationship, i already am involved with people. i don't need love. is it the intimacy? what is intimacy then? is this really how intimacy feels?
it must be something that makesus both give in. does he feel this way too? why is he doing it? none of us care, but we do care. i don't think he is happy either. but he doesn't want to talk about it. maybe he is smarter than me and he knows that talking doesn't help. you can't find the truth by talking, can you? that's not how it works. i'd love for it to work that way, but it doesn't - it just doesn't work that way.
it's not him. none of this has anything to do with him. i am doing this to myself. i am letting something pick tiny parts off me, tiny parts of my mind, soul and body - someone is collecting parts of me. it has happened for months now, and i just let it happen.
maybe because i hope that something will come into my life and replace those taken parts - and when it does come, i want to be so fucked up i can be rebuilt again from scratch.
or maybe we keep doing it because in the end it's something exclusively between me and him only. maybe because we are looking for something, even though we aren't looking for the same thing - even if i end up feeling ugly, at least i am feeling something. i think. maybe.
i think i feel something. i think i sense something. and even though it's not butterflies in my tummy, at least it is not a broken heart - it's just a perplexed mind. end the end, it all just turns out to be experiences.
i don't remember being happy unless i look at old pictures of you and me. or when i walk past your house. i am not really this sad. i think of happy things all the time, but happy things don't seem to make me happy anymore.
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