I’ve dreamt of you. At least, I know I have.

I don’t blame your existence. I don’t blame your hedge of an existence that says a loud dead end in my face. And shame, it sinks upon me like blood down my throat. Defeat instantly forced into my mouth like liquid poison. I am your available mockery. Your eyes, scorn-violet. They are more powerful than your stupid Sutra. They are red pills that get obsessive.

I’ve dreamt of you. It is before I met you. I don’t know. Will you be the one to . . . save me? I need your Maten Sutra. But something inside tells me I need more than that . . . or something else. Therefore, look at me. Look at me with those insufferably apathetic eyes so that they brew scorn. It has become a pill of pleasure to me, like blood down my throat, like defeat that puts me under sweet dominance, like these chains I fanatically choose to bear.

I don’t blame your cruel existence. I don’t mind. No, not at all. I don’t even mind you shooting me with that gun of yours . . .

if it’s to save me . . .

so long as you let me live . . .

even in shame. . . .

I want you.