You’re bitter, sometimes sour. You make me hate myself for loving you. But ask the alcoholic, what makes him come back everytime. Ask the gambler, who would gamble the last bit of his possessions just for that one high of winning it all. Take lessons about the optimism he has about a roll of dice turning his life around. That’s all I am, an addict and a gambler. Addicted to you and gambling on us.
That’s all I have for an answer when I question myself for coming back every time. Every time I walk away hoping to never be back. It’s not like we addicts don’t realise there is a problem, but the cure always seems more dreadful than leaving our drug.
People reminisce about past, looking at happier times but I don’t have that option. We never had any. It’s always been a road riddled with potholes of misery, filled with tears. I am no insomniac, I just prefer not to sleep till I can. These late nights are filled with hope. Hope of extending the day, squeezing some more hours of consciousness and trying to make it end with a smile. The cycle goes on, smiles elude us.
It’s the truth that everyone knows, we’re not made for each other. I dream, some day one of us will be brave enough to whisper this to the other.