трезан песник

It’s not your fault, it’s mine.
I never usually (probably hardly ever) act like this with anyone and I want to understand it but it doesn’t really matter after all…
I just need to want something else, do something else, occupy my mind with something else other than… you.
It’s not your problem, it’s mine.
I’ve never actually (totally completely) fucking cared before so I have no idea what to do with these thoughts but boil them down to rage which makes me look way fucking crazy.
I’m hopeless.
I prefer men physically and emotionally unavailable, I know.
And if for some odd reason all of my dedication and devotion makes the man I am fascinated with turn around and act interested, I RUN.
It’s not your fault, it’s not your problem.
I just need to want something else, do something else, occupy my mind with something else other than… you.
I don’t know how to do mutuality at all. I’m a poet for fuck’s sake, I need endless, painful longing to even survive.
If I ever trapped the object of my affection, I would probably die, right there, on the spot.
I’m a full on mess.
When I am aware that he doesn’t love me then I don’t have to be decent, nice or thoughtful, you know.
Yet, I’ve never felt badly about it before, like I do right now.
I’m torturing you because I refuse to like anyone who would be dumb enough to like me back and I want to understand it but it doesn’t really matter after all…
I just need to want something else, do something else, occupy my mind with something else other than… you.
It’s not your problem or your fault.
I act like this because I am like this and I am sorry.
But understand please…

If I were happy, what would I write about?
If I were happy, what would I write about?
If I were happy, what would I write about?

Ја сам сломљена љубав.

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