There’s gotta be a point where you’re just like you know what? Fuck it. I’m done. I’m out. And there has been many. But I quit hard as fuck. I do everything hard as fuck. Which includes among many, loving hard. I’m not very good at it but I go hard as fuck. If I love you, I love you. I won’t one day wake up and be like you know what? I don’t love so and so anymore. Yeah I’m just gonna erase the history we share. Probably not. I love every single person that I’ve ever told I loved still to this day. The fact that I also can’t stand many of these same people, that in fact I might kinda hate a few of them doesn’t erase the moments that we shared and I wouldn’t even if I could. Those moments are the treasures I’ve collected. The booty. That’s what makes all this other garbage that life dumps on you, kinda worth it. Or as close as you’re gonna get to “worth it” in this pointless, endless, senseless loop of a “life”. It’s a shame I can’t bring them with me when I flash. But I wander, aimlessly. But with every beginning there is always an end. One way or the other. And unless you’re planning on rotting away with this person, there has to be a moment where enough was enough. I’m sure you’ve probably known that that shit was done for a minute, you both probably do. But you stubbornly hang on, for what? I’m really not sure. History? Love? To prove something? For some selfish reason or with malicious intent? Whatever the reason it no longer is strong enough to hold you there and so you bounce, oftentimes ungracefully or biter. But like I said I quit hard which equates to I don’t quit. Anything. Not really. Very rarely. When I have it’s because enough was efuckingnough and I had to bounce before I did some dumb shit that I was gonna regret. But that’s usually what does it, homicidal intent. Once I feel like choking a bitch out, or throwing her off a deck, it’s time for me to leave. And I do. I’m not gonna put hands on no love that I love except my sister, that bitch has it coming from the beatings she gave me as a child. But I probably won’t. I can’t still hear my father over my shoulder telling me how he was gonna bash me out if I hit my sister. Fuckers been dead over 20 years but I still don’t want to get punched in the mouth by him. But not my girl. It’s my job to protect my girl not harm her. Life will do that enough. I just want to look out for and have someone look out for me. I lack a number of things in my life that I require or desire and ideally you’d want someone to cover you in the departments where you lack. And I find these kinds of girls and then somehow change them or break them and end up making them into female versions of myself. Hard where I need soft, cold where I need sweet, thuggish where I need then to be legit and level headed. I have finally, after all these years, decided that more then likely, I am the problem. I’m virtually unlovable due to the fact that I don’t love myself, can’t seem to find it in me to forgive myself for mistakes or poor choices and so in fact I hold myself in contempt. I probably hate me more then any of you fuckers ever could, which rubs off on these chick who eventually follow suit. So there I am, standing there looking like some asshole because I’m still in love and these bitches can’t wait to get out the door. That’s how it usually happens, me getting discarded with a quickness to be left wondering how that all went so bad so fast. It’s easier that way. It may hurt a little bit more, might leave a deeper cut, but like tearing off a bandaid it’s relatively quick and once done you can’t go back so it just is what it is. There’s no maybe I can do this or what if I do that. It’s just over. Done. Finished. And all that you can do is pick up the pieces and move along, you have no room to second guess anything, no time. Then we got situations where I feel obliged to do something, like I owe something to these girls for this or that and so even though I walked away, waving middle fingers as I walked out the door, 6 months later they are calling me with some sob story and I come running. Only to find myself once again miserable, used and underappreciated, asking myself why I thought it would be any other way. I’m not relationship material. I’m not the dude that you’re all eager to introduce to your folks. More likely I’ll be your secret. Someone you have to hide from everybody unless you don’t care about rumors or how people look at or think about you. According to society, there is only one reason why you might want to hang out with me. Not because I’m such a great dude or because I’m entertaining and fun to be around. Not because you actually like or love me. No, the only reason you might be hanging out with the likes of me is simply to get high or to acquire drugs. As far as society is concerned, I’m good for nothing and the people who associate with me must be up to no good as well. Just being seen talking to me has a chance to ruin your reputation, end relationships and change opinions of who you are or what you’re up to. That right there is reason to stay away from me, to not even give me a chance, to alter the way you interact with me. My relationships are doomed from get go and so that should be my enough is enough right there. What’s the point of even trying? Just to gather more baggage? To hurt my feelings? To farther damage to the tiny bit of hope I have left. Snuffing out the little candle burning at the end of the tunnel, throwing me completely into the darkness.