If I am not one thing then I am another. Seesaw. Tipping between states and at the time when I am feeling it, it doesn't feel like play. You have done nothing wrong, and yet I seem to run hot and cold and rarely any warm mix of the two. I remove a blog post. Delete it outright. I am worried by its angry tone. In real life I spend my morning spruiking your various qualities to someone new and smart and single and beautiful. At night I rage against you and the emotion is unwarranted. You are the same and you are constant and I love you and despite the operatic sweep of my emotions you are still there when I have returned from one state or the other.
I have denied myself the pleasure of an orgasm for days. I have not allowed myself the humiliation that comes with using you in this way, as if my abstinence will somehow atone for the months of pleasure. Instead, I go quietly mad from the lack of release. There is no way out of this, there is only a way to live in it and with it. And so I settle back into the pattern of it, knowing that tomorrow I might be somewhere between hate and love, back up on the seesaw once more.