Obsession? Yeah, I guess you could call it that.
You would know, of course. I've always thought it odd that a man with a degree in psychology could have such a poor understanding of his own emotions. Obsession, paranoia, sublimation...well, the sublimation may only be wishful thinking on my part. I have my suspicions, though. I understand perfectly that violent urge of yours; I've felt it myself many times, the desire to just throw you up against the wall and force a realisation into you, make you know exactly what I want from you. I can't make myself believe it's hate that drives me, however. I sometimes wish I could crawl into that sublimely strange brain of yours, wander the hills and valleys of your own personal madness, delve into your deep green heart. You're not the only one with a dangerous interest in secrets, you know. And the inner workings of that pretty head would have to be the ultimate unattainable secret for me. Making love to the ultimate mind...
But everything about you is unattainable, isn't it? For all your flirting and innuendoes and not-so-secret taste for porn, you've always seemed so...untouchable. A saint, young and beautiful and brave of heart, incorruptible by the filth of the decaying world. Ha. I always get soft-hearted, thinking of you. But it's still true. You shine with a light rarely seen in this world, the kind that always burns out too fast, drained by the empty masses yearning to drink in that light. And I'm one of them. Wallowing in sentimentality, I sometimes dream that all I would need to be redeemed in this world is a taste of your fire, just a spark to kill the shadows. I really believe it, sometimes.
There are times when I do hate you for this, you know. You think you hate me. I'm laughing again at the very idea. I could never make you feel this need. This fire. Hate is too intense an emotion; passionate as you seem to be, I don't believe that you could feel so strongly for someone like me. I can dream, though. Think of what it would be, if you would see and somehow accept me, stop thinking in harsh black and white, good and evil. Even your hate would be worth it. Better than angry indifference, anyway.
I can't stop thinking about you, the way you looked after I kissed you. I expected shock. I expected disgust, certainly. But the way your eyes went huge and unfocused, that expression that spoke volumes, all about words that start with "re": Repression, restraint...recognition.
Did I imagine that?
I'm trying to put it into pictures, perhaps to banish the images of your soft mouth, huge dilated eyes, bury the memories of the rough scrape of stubble and hot breath in my ear. Fire. Fingernails tearing defenceless skin, leaving harsh, inflamed pink lines. Gritted teeth, scalp sore from having the hair pulled hard, throat raw from holding back screams. Focus on that, the...let me think of a suitably melodramatic word... agony of unrequited desire, to keep the fantasies, the daydreams, the "what ifs?" at bay. Don't talk of worlds that never were, Alex. Love has never been hearts and flowers for me. But then, it hasn't been for you, either, has it? Not "I love," but "love has me." A demon that pushes at me, pushes me toward you, no matter how dangerous or foolhardy it seems. No choice. It goes against everything I am, selfish and self-preserving, to need something this much, to be dependant on anything. I know that one day this fire will consume me. That this obsession will be the death of me. That the demon will push me over the edge. But I think it may be worth the fall.