People everywhere have their eyes on you and will shoot down to every patronizing word you tell them without delay, but I don't fall for that shit. I know that's what you do but I'd appreciate it if you could put a sock in it and talk about things that matter. It's not hard, you're just shit out of luck with me and don't make me tell you again what I always tell you.
I want to be somebody trustworthy and I know that it's just a fragile dream with you because we live to fight and I love to hate you for not treating me like the useless fragile flower everyone else makes me out to be.
I don't claim to know much except that as soon as you start to be something you're not it gets hard to be yourself with the person you love. You forget what it is they love about you and can never love yourself. Not that you should love yourself like this, Eridan, because the only marks I want to see on that grey skin of yours are mine, understand?
The only thing I could ever need and the only thing I would ever try to be is loved and I think that's what I've found with you inside this craziness. I've stabbed you with my knitting needles and you've left bites or bruises that take so long to heal that they are always open under the blankets when we finally meld through the hatred down to boiling burning lust.
We fight, and scream, and fuck, and kiss and I know why. I've gone from insulting you with a tongue filled with rhyming poison to having that same poisonous tongue trapped with your own enough to figure it out more than I've figured out you and your ridiculous accent.
We do it for love.
We understand what they're saying to us about how it will never work but oh I wish they would just shut up and so that you can start keeping your part of the bargain because you're killing me sweetly with love and those goddamn dreams of destroying everything that isn't underwater. It's foolish, and stupid and god how I love to hate it and ruin your idealistic plan to wipe us all out. It's better than typing off verses of poetry to Dave about him enjoying his puppet-penis prison, mostly because of the dark rush and black burn I get from the barbs leaving my mouth is like a drug I can never quit as long as you exist.
The only thing I could ever need and the only thing I would ever try to be is loved and I think that's what I've found with you inside this craziness. You and the other trolls shouldn't exist and this twisted hate-love-pity-rage should not exist as something encouraged by anyone, but that craziness is just as accepted as alien trolls with those fins protruding from your goddamn neck. Are they even useful or are they as useless as your stupid water-wizard science-magic that is definitely a Harry Potter rip-off from beyond my galaxy.
We fight, and scream, and fuck, and kiss and I know why. I've stayed up after you long enough to trace your grip marks on my skin and ponder it like I wonder why I bother to come back for this brutal and unrestrained show of physical affection that we both deny goes any deeper than our genitalia.
We do it for love.
This feeling of blackness started as a spark in our breasts that expanded and exploded into dark destructive fires of hatred and sex and raging kisses full of teeth and tongues and blood. It snowballs in our personal Hell and melts away to leave its deadly core of stones and collected grime and garbage that had never meant to emerge from their snowy hiding place.
You insult me in every way possible to get the black out of me that you crave and I cannot get enough of the hatred that I end with that same word by smashing things or breaking things or burning things like our lust burns between us at all times. You can feel it in the air even as others pass between us or get into our tiff to end the raging cycle of hate-fight-fuck revolving in our synchronizing cores every time we meet.
It's so sick that with all the despicable violence and hatred and the beautifully loving, hateful sex that happens between us I can be so "sickeningly innocent" that we fight more than we fuck some nights and spend the rest of it lapping at our wounds without differentiating whose wound we were licking.
You say that I need to really get hurt one day, and promise you'll give it to me in a way that makes me scream, so when we fight I scream loud and in sex I scream louder just to spite you; I know you love to be right just like a sociopath and I love to watch your face contort with fury when I do it.
I've had to listen to all my friends and yours ask why I put up with this abusive relationship –the kismesis to end all- and I have to tell them as politely as I can that I don't want to fucking tell them because I reserve all my angry voice for you and only you.
I spend some nights when I'm alone and our hate-fight-fuck cycle has yet to reach the night where we spend all night together and force ourselves upon each other until we are both so far out of stamina and libido that we collapse into a sweaty sticky heap without care and snarl ferally to one another as we drift off wondering about our love-hate until I feel the urge to hunt you down for another blow- another barb- another bruising forceful passionate possessive kiss that always leaves me as breathless as if I had been water with you in your goddamn hive instead of in your recuperacoon- in your arms- in your black, spade-shaped heart.
In the end, I realize that I sickly love this three-step cycle and how plainly viciously hot our relationship is now with sick hatred ad lust and open opinion hanging in the air around us at all times. There is no lie; I hate you and you hate me just as much, which is why it's a kismesis, and that hate is the reason for my presence in your bed so often.
The only thing I could ever need and the only thing I would ever try to be is loved and I think that's what I've found with you inside this craziness.
We fight, and scream, and fuck, and kiss and I know why.
We do it for love.
I really have no clue where the fuck this came from. Talk about random. Read and review, darlings; I've never written Homestuck before.