I don’t think I can be in a relationship again. The care that is given, the nurture, the willingness to listen. Only, only. Only to be used, to be abandoned, abused, thrown down and destroyed, to realize that you are not someone to be loved, but only a fetish. Something that only someone with a fetish would ever be even remotely attracted to. To know that, and to realize that. Only now, have I realized. How long has it taken me to know this. Why? I should have realized it sooner. I live only to be ruined. Cracked beyond repair. To have my hopes risen. To have a hug so perfect, so comforting. As if it would take all the cracks and repair them. But they have been taped hastily with duct tale and when that is ripped, it is painful. Mind-numbingly painful. To be in such a hole of despair, that the moment a hand is stretched down, you do not question but to grab a hold of it. You forget to question. To ask if that hand is here to save you, or if it is simply wondering what the hole was for. So when you forget to ask, and you grab a hold of that hand, your heart full of hope, and your eyes only seeing the escape lit open for you and when that hand draws back in disgust, shock, fear, you can only despair. After all, you simply forgot to ask.