I'm sipping on my second glass of wine tonight. Second glass that I question. I never understood how people can just... Have a drink, without any guilt or overthinking. You probably do - half a bottle of your favourite whiskey on the right occasion. Let me guess - probably watching Die Hard or something similar, dripping with testosterone and the red of explosions and blood. It's nice how the colours are matching in all of this, isn't it?
I can't have a drink without beating myself up. Without thinking of my mum, who probably started her career in being wasted in a similar way. Took me way too little time to realise that half a pint is approximately when my mental walls drop, I start to drift away from the conversation and want to reach out to you.
I write this as Silence of the Lambs is playing in the background - movie I've watched way too many times for my age. About a psycho I had a crush on when I was a teenager. I wonder what does that say about me.
Today was... Hard. I'm trying not to think of what will happen when I see you on Monday. How I'll see you. What I'll feel. I did such a good job at not missing you. I learned not to miss people. And yet you still sit in my head, all the time, everywhere, and I feel like whatever I do, however I try the escape just isn't there.
It doesn't help that I woke up wet, tried going back to sleep but all I could see in my head was us. You. Touching me. I could almost feel your fingers on my hips as my body just... Writhed in place, enjoying whatever friction the warm sheets could provide me. I did nothing, though.
Throughout the day you sent me a picture - of your favourite, alter ego superhero and the sexy antagonist pressing their foreheads against each other. Two absolute opposites that exist on completely different sides of the scale, and yet are somehow forever linked. One wouldn't, couldn't exist without the other.
That made it worse. Way, way worse.
I try to keep these... Fantasies at bay. To not give in. But all I could do today is imagine us. All the depraved, insanely detailed scenarios that I've had in my head for what now feels like ages - I've ran them all, savouring what they did to me, how the imaginary you enjoyed them (I truly think you would), how it would be so easy - so incredibly easy - to make it all happen and not feel any guilt whatsoever.
And this is what's so scary. That this doesn't feel wrong. It feels deserved. It feels right. It feels like I can barely contain myself from it. Because god, I want you. To hold, and to kiss, and to lick all your wounds. To be yours, fully, at least once. To know what you feel like. It is driving me nuts.
Then I hit myself.
Hard.
With a palm on my cheek.
And again. Harder, way, way harder.
I know I shouldn't even kiss you ever again. I shouldn't. I technically can't.
But how can I not when yours is one of those rare, gem like kisses - as if I'm seen. As if someone could claim me through mere contact with skin.
We're all softness and carefull caresses.
But the truth is... I'd devour you if given a chance. I'd bite you. I'd ask you to pull my hair and press me down and grab my neck and hold me so tight you'd leave bruises.
...........
I know I can't have this. We can't have this. We want to, but... Yeah. Don't lust after the neighbours husband or whatever Jesus's says.
I already knew I'm not going to heaven.
But this...
I truly have no hope, do I.