Pickled.

I think I have gotten myself into a pickle. I hate pickles. 

The sourness of them, the look of them.

They are as unpleasant to eat, as they are to be in. 

I know what got me here. 

My stupid need to be loved.

My deep seeded craving for affection. 

Affection from anyone, stemmed from the roots of perfect abandonment. 

My gut, wrenching, nervous, anxious, pain.

Which way do I go? 

Up, down, left, right? 

Who do I choose? 

Who do I break? 

Or do I break myself? 

Pickles. 

They always leave a sour taste… 
-B. 8-14-17

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