Lust is the only way I know how to express my sadness.

I know it sounds twisted, but sometimes desire feels like the only language my pain understands.

When I can't cry, can't talk, can't even explain what's wrong, lust becomes the outlet the one thing that makes me feel something when everything else feels numb.

It's not really about pleasure it's about escaping the emptiness, about pretending for a moment that closeness can heal what's broken inside.

But when it's over, the sadness always returns, heavier than before reminding me that lust was never the cure, just another way to hide the hurt.