If this paper, mind you, screen, is, or was a mere second ago, blank, it’s because there’s a certain limitation to human language, and your brain thinks that’s about the farthest edge of it. What happens to you, what you experience, does it even count if it doesn’t defy words? You’ve wandered the globe, always seeking just the newest, the most bizarre, freak show. You end up in a carnival tent; you’re the freak. Do you even mind it the least bit?

Your friends say, see a doctor. “I know your liver doesn’t yet hurt for all the drinking; I know your lungs have grown tighter, perhaps a lot darker; I know your heart only aches for trouble.” They say, Please. See a doctor. “I know you’ve accustomed yourself to a survival battle of your own design. I know sins of the mind have more or less become habitual. I know you’d choose to cry, and bleed, and go fucking insane over the emptiness that is stillness.” See a doctor. Please. Fix yourself.

But let us not talk about fixing, or the underlying promise to exorcize the self destruction out of you. Tell me, how often have you stared into someone’s eyes and saw nothing but an abyss, and sought them for it nonetheless? Sought them, not for any petty moments of fulfillment; sought them because the vacuum draws you in just like a black hole would the sun. (But can you blame the sun?) And you reciprocate their nothingness with affection, so that if, if you do one day see the light, a light, any light, a flickering thing so weak your breath could blow away, then oh what victory! What marvellous marvellous triumph of the self.

But I digress. None of the words already written is what I want to write. I want to write about last night, and the sleepless attempts at rationalization, and the sickening need to not only find sense but create it. The reconciliations with fresh violations and the struggles deemed worthy only because they’re too much. I want to romanticize cruelties that I don’t deserve and conclusions drawn in hasty whispers across unfamiliar skin.

Beauty is the unfairest agent of them all, is it not? I’ve watched it drip with malice and wanted to slurp every last bit and ask for more. What unperceptive idiot thought darkness can only ever come with horns? And are we not easily deluded children, to despise the vulgar and share a bed with the graceful?

Tell me, what atrocities have you had to bear to get into their bed? Tell me, did you like bearing them? And if it sucks the air out of your chest now to admit it, would you say you stayed, more for the atrocities, than for the bed?

But in the tangled web of compromised free will and threats both laid in the open and creeping out of denials, of distress so sweet it hurts and an utter lack of empathy that makes curious muscles tense and nerve endings tingle, I am tampered with. I’m infatuated. I’m damn near frightened. I’m alive. And his body is warm and his eyes are cold and his words sting and burn and he’s fascinating and he’s fucking beautiful. And so help me god my mother hasn’t raised me a coward, so I won’t run.

So don’t run, okay? Even when you’re dangerous, even if I’m dangerous. Even if we look at each other and see nothing but disorders. Don’t walk away before you’ve given me enough, and taken enough, bruised enough and played enough. Don’t walk away until all is said and done and I’ve soaked in you, broke for you, fell and rose, fell and rose, fell and rose, and absorbed all your colors, and then survived you.

Or not.

So don’t run, okay?