wish-sticks

He understands you. He completes you. He's your other half in every way. When you push, he pushes back. You hunt him. He hunts you. He's everything to you. He's so much more than anyone else you've ever met, more worthy than all the others you've nudged into madness.

You don't really want to win this game. You just want to play it. You and him, whatever's between the two of you, violence and taunts and games of blood, it's going to last forever and it's going to be amazing. When you're around him, everything else blurs, slipping out of focus because he's the only thing that matters.

You hate it. You hate it you hate it youhateit.

You want to kill him. You want to make him hurt, and you want to make him suffer, suffer like you do, and you want to take every last drop of hope in his body and destroy it. Because that's what he does effortlessly, without even knowing it, with every disgusted curl of his lip, with every time he takes you and binds you and throws you away like a too-small fish. He doesn't care about you, and it's driving you mad, and you can't understand why.

Why doesn't he want you? Why doesn't he care? Why aren't you good enough?

Your greatest weakness is his greatest strength, and the only thing you can do about it, the only thing that saves you is making sure he never finds out. You don't know what you'll do when he finds out, but you have the feeling it'll involve the phrase "murder-suicide". He can break you, but you're already so broken that you don't know what'd be left.

You want him so much and you don't know how to stop it. You hurt him, you push him, you push and push and push at the fragile walls of his sanity and he pushes back and eventually, inevitably, something's going to give. Someone's going to lose. A secret, frightened part of you doesn't think it's going to be him.

You want to break him, but the mere thought of someone else trying is enough to send you into paroxysms of rage and the worst part about it is that if the situation was reversed, you know he wouldn't care what happened to you, and that knowledge hurts.

You daydream sometimes; some days, you fantasize about cutting your weakness out. You imagine literally taking a knife to your chest (or maybe someone else's) and carving out the piece of you that is so inexorably tangled and gnarled and pathetic. You know it won't work -- you tried once already -- but that doesn't stop you from wishing it would.

That isn't to say you're unhappy, because you aren't. It's not love. This isn't love. You're not in love, and the little things (explosions, the look on someone's face when they get the joke, running the police in circles, dead puppies) still make you laugh. Things are still funny, and the world is still one gigantic joke, and you still want to show everyone the punch line.

You're so pathetic it's hilarious, and you've spent days laughing at yourself, like laughter will burn away this weakness inside you. (It doesn't. You tried that too.)

YOU ARE ALL LOVELY AND I SHALL TRY TO RETURN WITH SOME LITERATURE