Allow me to drift into a mindset I once knew; the curse I loved and the flaws within it I must have misplaced and forgotten about. I am finally back as myself and I know everything that it entails, whether or not I am ready to take it. I remember this curse and the many ways it made me feel, the many times it made me write, the many moments it made me smile at every victory upon victory and every disconnection upon disconnection that came with it. I have sought out this curse for the last year because part of me knows I am in love with it, and at the same time, there is complication. You see, I am cursed promiscuous; promiscuously cursed. I find them, I kiss them, I'm over them, and within the process there is no love, no emotion, no lasting appeal that keeps me motivated to come back. It is not legal in this world for me to love, for love is the ruin of the life of our seductress inside and death to the curse I so eagerly waited to have bestowed upon me again.
There's no time to fall. There's no time to lie flat underneath someone who invokes love in me because in a matter of moments it will end and my curse will demolish for everything it was ever worth, saving me from an apocalypse of unwanted feelings. In a matter of moments it won't matter to me anymore and I'll involuntarily destroy everything that the faux-hawk ever was that inspired me to move in and kill. I know these things and these habits of mine in my twisted realm of sexuality, and I know that I can count on them to protect me from love and all the things I hate about it. I can rely on my curse for every face, every feeling, every faux-hawk, until the moment I accidentally let a feeling slip through my lips in a passionate moment. Suddenly I am vulnerable to every little crack in the sidewalk ahead of me that could cause my tall body to topple into the same bed more than once.
In these mishaps I am lost for love, wanting to voice it every five seconds and knowing that I am stifled with such sentences, for I am not allowed to fall in love. It’s against my religion, against my lifestyle, against my happiness and all the many words of genius that those three alone deprive me of. Love is not worth its confusion and pain in my life, and I am happier being the me that wanders and explores and experiments with different tastes and textures. I can accept my recent feelings for what they are and allow myself to feel the hurt I am logically supposed to feel, or I can understand that the phase of fun and all-exciting moments is fleeting and ends abruptly in nothing but comfort which leads to boredom. I like being on the edge of my seat, and having to feel like everything I do is being watched with a merciless eye of judgment. I like having to watch everything I do and make it perfect for every eye to see and love. I like knowing that I can't just let myself go; it makes every night a ruthless adventure where nothing is predictable but everything is calculated. I like being cursed, because it protects me from the wretched world of routine boredom and complicated comfort that is love. I was a member of this pathetic society for a matter of days until I realized who exactly I was and what exactly I had been meaning to stand for all this time. There's no time for such pettiness; I am not in love with you.