It’s funny, I’ve always believed that I could make this look way more romantic, like an honest powerful poem, but after several tries, I gave up.
You see how sometimes when you think and see stuff in a foreign language and you think is beautiful. A part of that is because it is foreign to you, and understanding stuff makes it more real, and a lot less romantic.
I don’t think I have ever loved, I think I have always followed a certain path, and I’ve learned to love some parts of it, but when those parts weren’t there anymore I always learned to love another part of it. I remember the song I was listening to when I lost my virginity, and I remember that as the nice part, the part I held on to. I remember those sorts of things. I remember the times. The last times I saw the last guy I had sex with, but I can’t remember the last time I actually had sex with him, I can’t remember how I felt, but I remember ego and the silence in my head.
To me sex was something supposed to happen, after some time, after some dates, after some listening to great songs and after some drinks. Now you see, somethings aren’t supposed to happen to everyone.
There was a guy that I think I was almost in love with until the feeling went away and when I saw him again I wanted to run away. I felt nothing, all of the attraction that was there for months , just wasn’t there anymore, and with that gone, nothing was supposed to happen, so I left.
I really wanted for my sexuality to work, so I felt broken.
The absence of the feeling made it worse, how much did I care to admit that I was basing acts, into insignificant moments?
That’s the thing with paths, they change and sometimes you look back and wonder where the fuck you’re at.
People told me all my life that I was over-romanticizing life and people, and I was. Because if I wasn’t, things just didn’t make sense to me.
Living in a spectrum of love, and people, and connections, can’t be a poem, they are usually a desperate and melancholic monologue.
Like this one.
-sincerely a demisexual
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