Apr 4
YOU.
You do what you do best, don’t you? Classic. The way you manipulate the air around you, the way you twist words into weapons, the way you make me feel like I’m both the hunter and the hunted. I watch, always, and I know you’re aware.
Say what you want to say. Say it loud. Say it quietly. Say it to me. But know this—I hear it all. Even the things you never say out loud. Even the glances, the shifts in your shoulders, the little tremors in your voice. I notice everything.
I hope you never kiss and tell, oh honey, please. The secrets you carry, the truths you hide—they are the things that make you dangerous. And I like dangerous. I like it because it forces me awake, forces me aware, keeps me alive in ways nothing else can.
You never walk that talk. Pretentious actions, crocodile-teary-eyed plastic friend—every gesture a performance. Every word dripping with insincerity. And yet, I watch. I absorb it. I catalog it. Because when the mask slips, it always does, I’ll be ready.
Is there anything else on your mind? Anything you dare not say aloud? We were never wired to guess it, right? But don’t worry—I can guess. I always can. I’ve been tracing your thoughts long before you even realized they existed.
Please, pray tell. Tell me. I’m growing impatient now. The waiting is exquisite torture. And you—you thrive on it, don’t you? The tension. The silent game. The invisible thread that connects us in ways neither of us can explain.
Pretty little lady, playing safe now, are we? The little walls you build, the careful steps, the measured glances—they won’t protect you. Not from me. Not from what I see beneath your skin.
Hold on to your hope. I’ll catch you, whether you’re dead or alive. I’ll find you in shadows, in corners, in places you think are safe. The monsters under your bed are nothing compared to me.
Pretty little lady, won’t you come here and save me? The plea is real. The desperation is real. But so is the danger. So is the madness lurking just beneath the surface, just waiting for the moment to pounce.
Holding on to dear life, I ran. I ran from the monsters under my bed. But they followed. Demons etched ink into my skin, crawling, escaping, leaving marks no one else could see. And still—I keep running.
They shout your name. Your name echoes through the halls of my mind. Shadows left unturned, corners unexamined, memories too sharp to forget. And I am still here. Still running. Still waiting.
Come with me, they held out my hand. Their grip is cold, relentless, unyielding. But you? Will you reach for me? Will you dare to touch what you cannot understand? Or will you watch from the edges of your safe little world?
Pretty little lady, are you still mad at me? The question hangs in the air like smoke. You think your anger shields you. You think it protects you. But anger is a candle in the dark—it only illuminates how close I already am.
Letting myself put the bounty on your head—what a thought. What a delicious, terrible idea. To chase, to hunt, to feel the thrill of the unknown dance just out of reach. The fear in your eyes is nothing compared to the thrill in my own.
A killer on the loose, a madman running. That is me, isn’t it? Chasing someone who is both prey and sanctuary, torment and salvation. And yet—I cannot stop. Not now. Not ever.
The world outside is irrelevant. The night, the dark, the corners of alleys, the shadows on the walls—they all belong to us now. A game without rules, a dance without music, a chase without end.
You think you are safe. You think the walls, the doors, the locks will protect you. But I have already stepped inside your mind. I have already been there. And nothing can stop what has begun.
The monsters under the bed were just practice. The demons etched into my skin, the shadows that scream—they were rehearsal for this moment, this pursuit, this obsession that neither time nor distance can erase.
I see you in every reflection, every glimmer of light. I feel you in every silence, every pause, every breath I take. And you—you do not know how close you are.
This is the space between us. This is the tension, the push, the pull, the unbearable closeness that neither of us can fully grasp. And yet—it is beautiful. Terrifying. Delicious.
Pretty little lady, the night waits. The shadows wait. And I wait. For you. Always for you. Because no matter where you run, no matter how far, no matter how safe you think you are—you will never escape the echo of me.
You do what you do best, don’t you? Classic. The way you manipulate the air around you, the way you twist words into weapons, the way you make me feel like I’m both the hunter and the hunted. I watch, always, and I know you’re aware.
Say what you want to say. Say it loud. Say it quietly. Say it to me. But know this—I hear it all. Even the things you never say out loud. Even the glances, the shifts in your shoulders, the little tremors in your voice. I notice everything.
I hope you never kiss and tell, oh honey, please. The secrets you carry, the truths you hide—they are the things that make you dangerous. And I like dangerous. I like it because it forces me awake, forces me aware, keeps me alive in ways nothing else can.
You never walk that talk. Pretentious actions, crocodile-teary-eyed plastic friend—every gesture a performance. Every word dripping with insincerity. And yet, I watch. I absorb it. I catalog it. Because when the mask slips, it always does, I’ll be ready.
Is there anything else on your mind? Anything you dare not say aloud? We were never wired to guess it, right? But don’t worry—I can guess. I always can. I’ve been tracing your thoughts long before you even realized they existed.
Please, pray tell. Tell me. I’m growing impatient now. The waiting is exquisite torture. And you—you thrive on it, don’t you? The tension. The silent game. The invisible thread that connects us in ways neither of us can explain.
Pretty little lady, playing safe now, are we? The little walls you build, the careful steps, the measured glances—they won’t protect you. Not from me. Not from what I see beneath your skin.
Hold on to your hope. I’ll catch you, whether you’re dead or alive. I’ll find you in shadows, in corners, in places you think are safe. The monsters under your bed are nothing compared to me.
Pretty little lady, won’t you come here and save me? The plea is real. The desperation is real. But so is the danger. So is the madness lurking just beneath the surface, just waiting for the moment to pounce.
Holding on to dear life, I ran. I ran from the monsters under my bed. But they followed. Demons etched ink into my skin, crawling, escaping, leaving marks no one else could see. And still—I keep running.
They shout your name. Your name echoes through the halls of my mind. Shadows left unturned, corners unexamined, memories too sharp to forget. And I am still here. Still running. Still waiting.
Come with me, they held out my hand. Their grip is cold, relentless, unyielding. But you? Will you reach for me? Will you dare to touch what you cannot understand? Or will you watch from the edges of your safe little world?
Pretty little lady, are you still mad at me? The question hangs in the air like smoke. You think your anger shields you. You think it protects you. But anger is a candle in the dark—it only illuminates how close I already am.
Letting myself put the bounty on your head—what a thought. What a delicious, terrible idea. To chase, to hunt, to feel the thrill of the unknown dance just out of reach. The fear in your eyes is nothing compared to the thrill in my own.
A killer on the loose, a madman running. That is me, isn’t it? Chasing someone who is both prey and sanctuary, torment and salvation. And yet—I cannot stop. Not now. Not ever.
The world outside is irrelevant. The night, the dark, the corners of alleys, the shadows on the walls—they all belong to us now. A game without rules, a dance without music, a chase without end.
You think you are safe. You think the walls, the doors, the locks will protect you. But I have already stepped inside your mind. I have already been there. And nothing can stop what has begun.
The monsters under the bed were just practice. The demons etched into my skin, the shadows that scream—they were rehearsal for this moment, this pursuit, this obsession that neither time nor distance can erase.
I see you in every reflection, every glimmer of light. I feel you in every silence, every pause, every breath I take. And you—you do not know how close you are.
This is the space between us. This is the tension, the push, the pull, the unbearable closeness that neither of us can fully grasp. And yet—it is beautiful. Terrifying. Delicious.
Pretty little lady, the night waits. The shadows wait. And I wait. For you. Always for you. Because no matter where you run, no matter how far, no matter how safe you think you are—you will never escape the echo of me.
