Whatever the traumatic brain injury is
that causes me to be obsessed with every little microbe about you
I want to swallow the sickness whole…
I know that whatever stroke I endure because of this impairment
coursing through me
that there is no survival- it will eventually and maliciously
destroy my very essence-
but I clearly like the suffering that you’re selling me wholesale at the moment, so caring is not a part of the price I’m willing to pay…
You’re not the only brilliant young delicious selfish narcissistic pretty boy around here KNOW THAT, but
I like your torture, sir, I like your very specific flu-
I feel like its all that I deserve considering that I’m the fucking definition of a classic creep in the eyes of anyone who happens to be looking at us…
The problem is that I want to take care of you
I want to lay down in front of you and kiss your feet
I want to drink you only to sweat you out again
but it wouldn’t make either of us any happier if I did…
Don’t ever ask me why I want to see you again, my addiction to your giardia is why, dummy, making me say so, is so, manipulative…
It’s not pleasant or pretty or purposeful but its painful and passionate and thick and ours and synthesized to feel authentic… and I’m entombed…
I love it ( you) it (you) us (this)-
I’m sure that as soon as I trap someone more beautiful than you are, who will hurt me just a tiny bit more than you do that I will then I’ll harass him all of the fucking time instead of you
even if I miss you and pretend that he is you
for a very long time….
This is all still, so much safer than a real relationship
This is all still, so much safer than a real relationship
This is all still so much saner than a real, or what they call real, relationship because the only enemy, my sickly beloved, my only enemy is myself-
and the hate that I have for me shines like tiny golden blood clots on the wet frozen strip of diseased Kleenex, that is you…
I love you.

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