I’m Not In Love But This Shit Is Still Going to Hurt Like Hell

A tale of love addiction

I’m not in love but this shit is still going to hurt like hell.

You didn’t know that I never live in this world, my head is in the clouds and I come down once in a while to pretend to live, to pretend to belong.

You didn’t know that I live in addiction, love addiction that I fight with, grips my brain and squeezes every matter out of it.

Loops in my head after two seconds with a man I connect with, change my life, wife, knife zombies, stay with you until the end of the world.

I’m not in love but this shit is going to hurt like hell when I can feel your hands over me, the same ones I force you to rip my heart through my chest with.

Drain that blood until I’m sick, that’s how I like it.

Then I crawl and gather guts and bones to create myself again with.

So, that’s why I don’t do casual very well. My light, being, force, wild beast of a feral woman scavenges.

She scavenges hearts and feeds on pieces. I keep her on an iron chain, scrapping, choke, collar, rope but sometimes she suffers through the pain and burrows in the dark wet shadow of the closest heart that feeds her scraps.

And there I am, left to find her. Months, years after, she starves there. I don’t recognize her, I only hear her deep beast cry, I try to lure her back to me.

She wasn’t even in love but that shit still hurt like hell.

She’s a love addict, they spit in her face, piss in her hair then rub it in telling her it’s not real. She’s delusional, crazy, rabid, seething.

Poor girl, I watch her dance in euphoria, throwing her clothes to the wild, then craving the blood of his heart, his love that he throws her in pieces. Nevertheless, she’s hooked, then dependent, drugged up on fake love, then pulling back, in bed for days, sweats, nausea, the bile of withdrawal into relapse.

They tell her it’s not a real thing, so she stops talking about it, she just feels it and knows this shit hurts likes hell, but she’s always made it through.

A little more empty, brick wall, fence, barb wire, fortress around herself. Cold, they say she is cold.

And here I am always trying to save her, trying to chisel away at her walls before she is gone. So you see, we are both, never really here.

We don’t do casual anything very well. We are intense, bring down heaven, raise hell women who are bearers, protectors, gatekeepers of warrior hearts in a world that is darkening.

We’re not in love but this shit is still going to hurt like hell. Our love is meant to encompass something bigger, but here we are, the irony of fighting this love addiction.

Thanks for reading,


It’s a strange thing to be aware of a supposed problem you have but being on the slowest road to recovery. Sometimes I feel like I’m watching myself in slow motion. What is a girl to do? Write.

This piece was originally published on Mediums publication the Assemblage.

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