I spend hours each week trying to talk myself out of you. It’s a waste of time, it’s not going anywhere, I’ve already gone in too deep. But you feed me just enough to keep me going, and seeing you takes me right to where I was and I remember why I feel the way I do. But then I face the silence again and the questions: Is this even worth it? Cycles upon cycles of insecurity and doubt. When I hold you in my phone I know I am better than this, but when it’s flesh and blood in my hands I feel like this is exactly what I need.
The middle place is a contradiction. You are contradicting yourself and I am also. We are a contradiction.
So I’ll talk myself down from you again, and then you’ll pull me back up. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.