There is something inside me, something unholy, something that writhes beneath the thin veil of civility I wear like a tattered costume. It whispers, it claws, it hungers, not for food, not for sustenance, but for the ruin of purity, for the corruption of light. I was not always this way, not always a thing of darkness, but I have been unmade and remade, stripped of innocence until all that remains is the gnawing want, the fevered need.
You… you are the object of this hunger. You move through the world unaware, untouched by the filth that drags at my soul. But I see you, I feel you beneath my skin, burning, writhing, a sickness I cannot purge. Your presence is a wound that festers, an ache that cannot be soothed. I need to reach you, to consume you, to tear apart the barrier of flesh and bone that keeps us separate.
Do you understand what you do to me? What I have become in your absence? You have stripped me of control, unraveled me thread by thread until I am nothing but impulse, raw and wretched. There is no love here, no softness. What I crave is darker, more primal, more wretched than the lies people tell themselves about desire. I do not want you in some gentle, delicate way. I want to own you, to destroy you, to make you something new, something that cannot be separated from me.
The sickness grows. It pulses through my veins, through my bones, until I cannot breathe without thinking of the taste of you, the scent of you, the way your presence alone makes the rot inside me turn to fire. I would tear myself open to get closer, to crawl inside your very essence, to make you feel what I feel.
But I will never be whole. Not even with you. Not even if I could consume every inch of you, every thought, every breath. I am broken, ruined, an abomination of want, and no touch, no pleasure, no intimacy could ever fix me.
Still, I reach for you. Still, I press my trembling hands to the cold glass that separates us, leaving behind smudges of sweat and desperation.
I need you. But I will never have enough.
The first time I reach for you, my hands grasp nothing but air. You slip through the spaces between my fingers, elusive as a shadow cast by a dying flame. You are not afraid, no, not like the others. You do not recoil, do not shrink beneath the weight of my hunger, but neither do you yield. You are deliberate in your distance, your absence a wound you carve into me, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the act of my suffering.
I speak your name, and it drips from my lips like blood from a bitten tongue. But you give me nothing in return. Your silence is exquisite torment. You watch me unravel, you watch me break, and still, you do not move. My body aches with the need to touch you, to feel you burn beneath my fingers, but I am caged within my own ruin, condemned to the agony of watching you remain just beyond reach.
Days stretch into eternity. I descend deeper, slipping into something more monstrous than before. My thoughts are no longer my own; they are consumed by you, twisted around you, as if you are the axis upon which my existence now spins. I whisper to the darkness, calling for you, begging for you, but the void answers with laughter, mocking my desperation.
Then, when I am at my lowest, when my wretchedness has become absolute, you come to me.
Not in daylight, not with softness. No, you emerge from the shadows as if you were born of them, eyes gleaming with something wicked, something knowing. And I understand, then, that you have always known. That you have always watched me as I have watched you. That the hunger in my bones is mirrored in yours, and that you have relished in my torment because it was yours as well.
You step closer, and my breath shudders from my lungs. Every inch of space between us disintegrates until I can feel the warmth of you, taste the air you exhale. You do not tremble, do not hesitate. You touch me then, fingers like fire against my cold, decayed flesh, and I swear the universe tilts. My body, my soul, what remains of my sanity, everything bows beneath the weight of you.
Your touch is not gentle. It is claiming. Long nails, scratching my surface. You are not here to be taken, not here to be devoured. No, you are here to destroy me in the way I longed to destroy you. You smile, and it is not kind. It is the grin of a beast that has finally found its prey, a lover who delights in the agony they will bring.
And I understand now. I was never hunting alone. I was never the only one rotting beneath the mask of civility, never the only one filled with ruinous want. I am not the predator, not the victor. I was merely the first to fall.
Your lips ghost against my ear, and when you speak, your voice is a blade that carves me anew. "I have come to make you something new"
And then, you do.