I wallow in dreams and memories, some eternal fantasies in which I, a puppeteer, fashions you in every way I please.
From looks to habits or the movement of your hip I hold the string from tongue to lip.
A single sway could make you prey to wrathful play, you, hunted to the hunter, thread to the hook caught upon its clinging nook.
I spit and curse at your nature which I seek to resemble, me, lifeless and formless without a self, void of a soul, a creature unborn, a narc from cradle to the grave. I love you the best I can, you, avatar of what I know I am.
My projections.