Breathe. Slow. Shallow. Stomach full of knots, barely ate in days. Breathe.

Heavy music fills the air, drums beat in my head the same animal pulse from last weekend, when I saw you at the club. I watched you dance for hours; my eyes drank greedily what my mouth could not taste.

Pictures line the crowded walls. Yearbook photos, candids, newspaper clippings of group shots with edges curled and yellow. This has been going on far too long.

Black umbrella leans against the door, still wet from today's encounter. I waited in the rain for two hours, just to accidentally pass you on the street. You were late. Probably spent your morning dreaming up ways to torture me, you bitch goddess in angel's clothing.

Something I can never have, but can't concede. I am a hunter. I have been captured by the game.

Do you know what it's like to lose control of yourself? Of your life? To spend every minute consumed by thoughts of something you can't have? Do you have any fucking idea how much pain and misery and longing and want I've suffered because of you?

Oh, my coveted one. My habit. Your voice is burned into my ears, your name is tattooed on my eyelids.

I cut myself to feel something new, anything but you. The stinging-dull blade only makes it worse. Now I'm picturing you covered in sweat and sex, wet like I'm wet, your skin alive in agony and endless, aching need.

Thank you, boys.

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