Hear me when I tell you, I can’t stop.
I’ll keep going and destroy myself in the process.
I want this, I want you, but most of all I want experience.
I want to write.
It’s why I’m hooked.
You’ve become my muse.
What I wander to when I’m out of ideas.
Understand the innocence of this obsession, like cutting open an animal out of curiosity.
You’re more of an idea now, stay an idea, I want to write you.
I want to undress you with words.
Build you letter by letter.
Send your bones crashing.
Scatter your ashes in my mind.
I want so many things.
I want to hear you say things.
I want to see you do things.
I want to brand you.
I want to write about it.
Knowing people has become an addiction for me.
I want to spend my life meeting people and writing about them.
I want to spend my life writing about the things you make me feel.
The misery, the loneliness, the strangulation, the hope, the light.
I’m blinded and wrong.
I’m just where I want to be.