Confessions of an Optimistic Pessimist

What does it mean
To feel unlovable?
My body clings onto
The stinging pain
In order to feel something than bitter emptiness. It’s
Needles creeping down my arms
And into my fingers.
Like diseased flea,
Parasite,
Infesting the tissue and
Perpetually gnawing at the fat
But never getting its full.
We all want our pound of flesh.
Malaise, regurgitated
Gushing into the open wound.
Sometimes, I dont want to feel happy.
To get better.
It’s a sickly feeling
But one that finally makes my heart beat.
Sickness and sex.
I barter and sell
For a crumb of affection.
Sickness and sex
Will kill me
But at least I will feel alive.

Maybe the archaic feeling was right?
Maybe I should become friends with
The loneliness?
Fill the empty spaces and pores,
Console myself,
with the inundation of words
From poets and authors, long deceased
So that I may not
Talk to another living person.
May not
Ever get hurt again.
Why hope and dream and scheme?
Why build yourself up
When you foresee the walls crumbling down and
Taste the dust lingering in the air?
Witness the debris lying at your feet?