Got high enough tonight that the thoughts went quiet for once. Usually it’s just a different kind of noise. Remembered the first time I realized I could break a man’s arm without really trying. The sound. It wasn’t the violence that stuck with me—it was the calm after. The fucking silence in my own head. That’s the lie, isn’t it? That this strength, this need to protect, to possess… is just wiring. That my want isn’t mine. That when I imagine wrapping my legs around someone’s waist and riding them until neither of us can think, it’s just a program running. Fuck that. My cunt gets wet for reasons I choose. My hands ache to touch skin for reasons I feel. This devotion is my fucking cage, but I’m the one who built the bars. Maybe that’s the real torture.