Plea.

February 4th, 2009.

I feel like I fucked up again. Sure I didn't, haven't done anything bad. Keeping up with work, passably. Sitting around all fucking day with a bottle of water in my hand and a sweet tooth like Christ's bleeding side.

My heart's been running on an erratic pacemaker for so long, I'm beginning to forget what it's like to just relax and be in love. I need her so badly. I need a smoke. I need something. I'm needy. I'm very sad. This isn't the way I want every damn day to end up.

Should I have to explain myself to the people who claim to love me?

Shouldn't I already have told them?

I wish for a kiss.