I don't know why I do this to myself. I suppose I'm masochistic that way. I like the pain. I like inflicting it, why should feeling it be any different? And it's pain that I feel when I'm with you. When I have to watch you with him, that hurts. When I have to watch you fighting, losing, that hurts. When I watch you leave in the morning, without so much as a goodbye, that hurts badly. But when I watch you over me, under me, inside me, that hurts so good.

But it's not all guns and roses, because I like guns and roses and what we have isn't right. But it isn't wrong either. No, wrong can't possibly feel this good. That's what I tell myself. When I'm alone. Because if I start to think about this seriously, about what it means, no, that's too much. Blood, I can handle. Maiming, killing, obliterating, I can handle, but this is too much.

And I don't know what I'm doing half the time. Or where I'm going, where this is headed. Getting there may be half the fun, but I'm going nowhere fast. I wish you would tell me. I wish you could tell me. You tell me a lot of things, but you don't answer my questions. You don't like questions. Or doubts. You don't like anything intangible, because all you like is what you can feel.

But I know what you're after. And I know it's not me. It's the same reason you follow him around like a puppy dog. It's power that you seek. You're not attention starved or desperate or in love, like I am. But, I can't tell you this. I'm aware of that. I know it would only further complicate things, and things are convoluted enough as it is. Regardless of whether or not honesty is the best policy, I'm invested enough to know that honesty like this can completely kill a relationship like ours.

But I want to tell you the truth. If there was anyone I'd want to know the truth, it would be you. I mean, we're friends, right? Acquaintances at least. But I can't tell you. I 'm not much for keeping secrets, mine or anyone else's, but I'll keep this one. See, because this one's about you. You're my secret. Well, not you, how I feel about you. Obviously you're aware of my feelings to an extent. Even if you think it's only lust. But it's not, I'm not entirely. As much as it pains me to admit it, and as much as I like pain, it's more than that.

It's you. Your blonde hair and blue eyes. Your curling fingers and pouting lips. You were a person once, and she is who I see, who lurks at the back of your eyes when you're oh, so close. Sometimes, though, I think you feel the same way. After all, you do tell me as much. But deep down, I know you're lying. But I let you because it's what I want to hear.

It's yes I want to hear when I ask you to meet me. It's my name I want to hear when you're trembling under my fingers. It's I love you I want to hear after we're done. So that's what you tell me. And I let you. Maybe I'm weak. Maybe I'm lonely. Maybe I'm a lot of things I'd rather not mention. But for those few precious moments, when I have you all to myself, I'm yours. And your mine. And that's all that matters.