Pretty typical shit in Book Title.

Misery is the only thing that comes to mind presently.

I falter.

Hesitate.

Know better but can’t seem to help it.

My heart is such an idiot.

I’m envious and ashamed. Making a scene by showing my ass. Red in the cheeks from kicking myself. I wait, rigid, paranoid, expecting each vibration to carry your footstep to my eager ear, scared. Foolish as I am gullible. Masochism made flesh. Bated breath. I miss the familiar pain, the blood on my tongue. I’m hungry for violent flattery. Tell me you love to hate me.