The Love Hypothesis

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 I feel sick today. I hate labels. But I know I’m demisexual. Every encounter that’s ever happened without love makes me want to puke and scrub my skin, like I’ve been violated by the oil of someone. And it’s this awful tangle in my head because sometimes I say I want it because I’m screaming to be normal. It’s so childish. Who cares. Let it go. And I cry and I cry and I cry. 


You don’t have to. 


He said that to me once. 


You don’t have to. 


Rape in a way feels cleaner, because it wasn’t my choice. 


I don’t know if no longer caring for an imagined audience is a good or bad thing. I don’t know if I’ll survive the next bits. I want to bring such sweetness to another person. People have read to me before. I want to read to them, with a head in my lap and a hand in their hair. I want to climb trees and sit in a deluge, soaked in a summer rain. Like it’s not been said before. Like it hasn’t been done before. Fuck sex. It’s feral, and not in an all consuming animalistic need, it’s an oil spill in my life. I scream and I scream and I scream. I hate anyone who’s touched my body and not held my heart with gentleness. I hate them. 


Get away from me. 

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