my obligation to you is almost a paramour;
there's a sinful shame sinking into the marrow of my bones like poisoned perfume. you clog my senses in such an woeful way- the more damaging, the more delicious. i'm addicted to your validation, and when i don't get it, i crumble, because what am i if not what others choose to see me as? you hurt me so much, but i've had a habit of pressing my bruises for as long as i can remember. habits die hard, don't they? maybe it's the sting you left on my tongue that i love so much, or maybe it's just the punishment i am craving.
