I crave you. Around me, inside me, all over me. If I were to see you, it’d be all over for me. All over like the clothes we would tear off of one another and throw onto the floor.
You can take me. I’d gladly let you. It feels good to lose control to someone like you. Dark, reckless, angry and insensitive. Because I don’t need someone to care about me. I don’t need to be caressed and held dearly like a small kitten.
I’m not small or weak or fragile. I admire those who tip toe around me as if I am. I see pity in their eyes. I see constant worry as if my bones will shatter with the slightest flick on the wrist. They somehow see innocence, as if fawning over a newborn before being introduced to sin.
Maybe I like the darkness I see in you, because I feel it thriving inside myself and it’s desperate to take over. Then those other eyes watch me. Don’t lose your kindness. Don’t lose your soft, gentle touch— when all I want to do is tightly grip the strands of hair on your head to pull you closer.
Right now I’m not thinking about love. Love is innocent. Love is beautiful. Love is balanced. It’s a mutual feeling between two individuals that develops to comfort, respect and loyalty. I don’t want that.
What I feel so desperate for is passion. The most passion I’ve felt was during times of darkness. Maybe that’s my problem. My greatest, most heavy weighted feelings have been initiated by moments of running from cops, kissing taken men, tasting blood as it dropped down from a broken nose and sneaking back into my bedroom’s window only to spot my mother standing at the door way.
I was reckless and I loved it. I see that in others and it’s as if I can feel my own pupils dilate. The blackness of them expanding greater to spread over the light blue in my eyes.
I see it in you. That’s why I crave your lips on mine. I want to remember what that feels like. I want to remember what it feels like to not give a shit. I want to remember what it feels like to be seen as raw, brutal, bad and threatening. The same way I saw you when looking into those empty eyes.
Why is it that the bad is so damn inticing? Maybe some of us just have a more difficult time escaping it than others. All I know is this–people like you make it hard for me.