She loved me like a snuff film. 

She loved me like she found me wrapped in brown paper, forgotten in the corner of some dirty parking lot. A patch of cement strewn through with broken glasses and dead weeds. She took me home; I had no name written on me.

She loved me like something private and fatal. She loved me like suicide on a slow day. She loved me like she wanted to slit her own wrists and forget her own name; she just wanted me to teach her how. 

She loved me for my screaming, my struggling, and the weak way I went down. 

She loved me like something she could put a stop to.

Why did you follow me into this hole, down, down, down into this hole, with eyes so bright? Eyes so bright you have. 

Now we’re tumbling, heads over heads over those cool shoes you wear and these dirty old sneakers which I used to pound down with upon the pavement. Now we’re tumbling together, out of head, and out of hand.

When did this get so out of hand? 

She’s spilling into me, out of me, like a big frothing cup of it; a big frothing cup of saliva, all sticky and sweet from those candy-coated drugs she’s sucking on all night long. 

Why did you follow me into these woods, where the trees grow so, so tall, and the shadows spill out so, so long, like the darkness wants to eat you up and up and up and up,

Until you’re gone?

I love it when you drop one-word and single-sentence themes for me to write about. 

I like the element of chance and chaos you bring to things. You get me thinking my same old thoughts, but about whatever’s on your mind. Or some perversion thereof. 

I like letting you lead me on, lead me astray, lead me down some simple country path, no doubt lined with razor-wire and trip-mines, the kind that shatter kneecaps and ruin young soldiers lives.

Yeah, writing feels like warfare with you. You fire off and I fire back. You laugh when I miss, and you bleed when I connect. I’ll absorb everything you’ve got and feed you back an onslaught of misery and affection. 

I could never put up with this from anybody else. It helps that you’re so beautiful. 

She looks up at me from my lap, like one of those cats that’s can’t conceive that you’d have anything else to do, aside from being a warm place to curl up upon.

I’m meaner than I look, and nicer than I act, nicer than I ask.

She’s louder than she looks, and quiet as cats asleep. She’s quiet as creepy cats, the kind that tiptoe around corners to stalk your sock with claws all extended and ready to kill. She’s as quiet as she needs to be, and when she wants me, she makes a little noise to pull me over to her. 

Anybody else could make me flinch, but she just leaves me to burn.

And I burn up, and up and on up, up, up. 

God I wanna take over your world. I want to hang my posters on your wall, and force my mantras onto your lips.

I want to write your politicians’ speeches; I want to be crouched around the corner from the cameras, my gun pointed at their children’s heads, making them all behave until the coast is clear.

I want to put down the dissenting voices against me. I want to lock the disagreeable types away in a cupboard somewhere. I want to put up a big barbed wire fence around your city limits, lined with long iron walls. 

I want to break your will against mine, like rocks striking for sparks. 
I want to break your bones against mine, so we can bleed together like a proper scene of depravity and desperation.

I’m desperate to control you, desperate to own you.