if i write poems about his lips, and how the only thing that could satisfy me would be to sink my teeth into them, that's love, right? if all i think about are his hands, and how they look like they could do me ****** harm, but instead i'm wishing they would treat me with extreme gentility, that's love, right? if on the way to school, i can't see the road ahead of me because of my tears and how they blur my vision because i know that he will never need me as much as i need him, that's love, right?if i'm wrenched into consciousness at one a.m., drenched in sweat, breathless at the subconscious thought of his hand in my hair, that's love, right? if i can't see anybody but him, eve as i'm filling the void with meaningless strangers, that's love, right? if i've lost myself into the ever loving abyss and i haven't cleaned my room in months, that's love, right? if my hair is matted and my soul id dead, if i'm not me and he's still him, that's love, right?

**** me with an abstract loathing. the room is all cloudy hues of arsenic and burgundy and charcoal. in the ****** light of two a.m. we're together. it's an undefined hatred with which we love. i can't tell if i yearn for more or less space between us, but i'm twisted and moaning. with an earthshaking rhythm, we climb higher and higher. your hands grip the head board, my nails on your back. a thunderclap that's my heartbeat resonating deafeningly thought this obscure room. the animosity in the air is tangible, but tasteless. your lips on my neck, my legs coiled about your waist. there's a phenomenon between us, a tidal wave, a green flash, a supernova. there's a certain desperation in our movements, the influx of fever, it's intoxicating. we reach the pinnacle, the peak, a spasm. still, we despise each other. the glowing ruby luminescence of your skin illuminates the darkness.