This Is Not Love, This Is Madness


I don’t think I crave love. I crave ownership.

I don’t know if I’m truly selfless in my feelings for you, or rather tending.

You are mine.

I feel power in those words, not affection. I feel safe in your love for me, knowing all I need do is ask, and you will oblige.

But, but.

Your voice, it holds me. Grabs me and refuses to let go. Your tongue licks lullabies as the dance out of soft lips, seducing me into the calmest realm possible.

I grapple with this control. It intrigues me; it frustrates me. I am at a crossroads when it comes to you, conflicting desires adding up to confusion and late night talks and words of romance and feelings of unrest.

You feel like an extension of me.
But how can I explain that this is not love, this is survival?

When you’re cut, I bleed. When you don’t eat, I starve. These are not words of sweetness or beautiful monogamy; this is a mutated cell that affects logical thought and choice.

These are uncharted waters, and the deeper I wade, the faster my heart beats, thumping against my chest like the pounding fists of a prize-fighter. This love is not candy sweet, delicate lollipops of blue raspberry that I cradle between frosted lips.

I am so fearless with you. Who before you have made me feel at once courageous like a lion’s roar, like canine teeth slicing through the skin of prey like butter?

I am too independent for this love.

They say to love so freely is to be brave, to be strong. But this doesn’t feel like bravery, this feels like madness. This type of crazy is addictive. Baby, save me, save yourself.

But whatever you do, please don’t go.