Anxiety.  I’m so scared to get hurt.  And I know I like him too much, so much that he cannot reciprocate it, and probably never will, setting me up for disappointment and pain.  I’m so scared, I don’t want to do that.  I like the sex with him; I want it; no, I crave it.  But it just makes me like him more, so I don’t want to like sex.  I don’t want to want sex.  But it’s so hard if I still like it; I should try to hate it.  If he can get me to like it, he can get me to hate it.

I hate wanting things; it’s pathetic; it makes me weak.  No, it’s not things, it’s people.  It’s okay for me to depend on masturbation to get an orgasm and be satisfied.  Persons… he may hurt.  He’s unpredictable.  I can’t get it when I want it; what if he chooses not to give me any?  He is only predictable in that he will hurt me.  That’s all.

I’m just so scared.  I like love; I crave love; I need it.  But he doesn’t like me as I do him.  And do I even like him?  Do I have the right to like him?  Is it rational to like him however much I do right now?  Or perhaps I don’t like him as much as I possibly think?  I might be in love with the idea of him, my fantasized version.

And his past lovers… how can I ever compare to them?  I can’t.  He knows how ugly I am; he knows what I did with Greg, what happened with my dad, how I tried to commit suicide, and how I initially liked whites more.  That’s what makes Yvonne special to him; she wasn’t ugly like me.  That’s okay.  I doubt I can ever come close to Yvonne, or the others; we’re just sex.

I wonder why he doesn’t declare it.  Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt me.  I’m so frustrated.  I feel all this pain, and if I don’t end it now, I’ll get so much more.

The best thing to do right now, is to fuck him.  Rip myself, let me bleed, let me cry, and hold myself afterwards.  I’m the only one who cares, who holds me when I’m so hurt, wipes away the tears and rock me back and forth.  Let me recollect my thoughts, get my act together, dress, and get the fuck out.  Never look back.  Sex for the last time, and remind me that it is what it is.  It’s just sex, and it gets me attached on someone.  It puts him responsible for parts of my happiness; I can’t have that; that’s just weak and pathetic.

I just need to ask him, one last time, for this help.  That’s all I’ll ever need from him.