You are like my allergy*. When I consume you (or let you consume me), I get all red — a warning sign. It means I’m getting myself into trouble. That I should stop. And then, I get the rashes, which are so itchy and uncomfortable. When I scratch my skin, it becomes painful. Worse, it bleeds. But worst of all, I can’t breathe. A terrible horrifying feeling.
So as much as possible, I avoid you. Because I don’t want the awful feeling when you’re near. It terrifies me. It taunts me. Even if I want to indulge, I stop myself. Even if I want you so bad, I divert. I want to forget your looks, your touch, your smell, your taste. I tell myself that you don’t taste so good. That I want to taste the others. I pretend just so I won’t eat or drink you. Won’t devour you. Won’t want you. Won’t need you.
Because you are bad for me. Bad for my health, my emotional health. Because when I let myself go, I lose control. Desire takes over. I become anxious and demanding. I become depressed and guilty. All at the same time. I crave. I yearn. I ache.
So I withdraw. I deny. I ignore. It’s all about control. I control myself. I control my want. I differentiate what I want and what I need. I don’t want you. I don’t need you. I don’t care about you. I don’t love you. Just because. Not this time. Not ever. Not anymore.
*I’m allergic to shrimp, wood ear mushroom (tenga ng daga), strumazole (my med for hyperthyroidism), alcohol (my recent discovery is Tanduay Ice, but I can take a few shots of beer), dust, and heat. 
