Dear me, dear us — the one I was and the one I am.
If I say toxique in French, would it sound better? Or is the origin irrelevant when the story refuses a single frame?
His villain eyes are blue, and his 2:13am messages are short: "I'm coming."
What's the point of asking when the arrogant control he has over me helps me play the victim of our circumstances?
And don't I love giving that responsibility for my pain to someone else?
Is it really better to be in bad company than alone?
Truly alone?
At least this kind of alone has a pulse.
Alone is the absence of being understood.
At least he understands my wild side.
But how long is long enough for my body to rot in repetition?
So how bad is it that I often open the door at 2:13am?
Isn't it just human?
Temporary amplification is my second language.
I don't repeat what hurts me.
I repeat what works faster.
And illusion works faster than healing.

—

Dear me,
It's a pattern.
Love came and killed us, and now our broken hearts are looking for a temporary home.
I wondered whose was more broken — his or mine.
It didn't matter.
I needed impact.
Naming something doesn't eliminate desire.
I know men like him.
They watch.
They wait.
They position.
They are charming — short term, later damaging.
It's a hunting game.
Only this time, he didn't know I was aware of the rules.
This wasn't love.
It was transaction.
The membership fee.
One broken heart.

—

After he leaves, the silence is louder than his knock.
The sheets cool down faster than I do.
And the impact fades quicker every time.
Dear me, who is the toxique one — him or I?
He thought he was the danger.
He wasn't.
He was just convenience — a tall one, a familiar one, a very handsome one.
Still, his only job was to break the silence of nothingness, to fucking feel alive — and I did.
And you know what?
I will do it again.
Consider this my next installment.

—

Dear me, the one I am becoming — does this fit the life you will inherit?