The dream is dead, and I’m back lying in my bed, hands on both sides of my head asking myself, “WHY did you do that? Why did you dream? Why did you let your heart hope, you knew the WHOLE TIME the thought of a real dream about love coming true is a joke.” I kept reminding myself to stop indulging, stop writing, stop sleeping with him! It may feel better than anything I’ve done for myself in a decade, but it’s too good, too sweet, too relieving, exposing the void that had been waiting for me to notice before it swallowed me up. Now, I know my fate. Even in my dreams last night, I was yelling and crying…so lost…but I guess I’ll find my way. As with everything always, I have no choice.

I look back at my writing and fuck me, I knew to stop a month ago, feelings and thoughts, wanting to be sexual. Fuck me! I hate myself for just ending up another fucking asshole.