Hooked.

I want this part of you with its hooks in me out, surgically removed but you’re so deep in there I’m afraid I might die on the operating table. You know and I know that no matter what I will keep crawling back like a hopeful junkie with a roman candle in her crotch, and you, my aloof dealer, teasing me until the doorbell the phone anything else distracts you and you’re on to the next. You cherry pick my words. You answer only part of the question. You answer with a brief yes or no and those tiny nothings drop like a brick on me from the top of the Empire State Building. I want to be free. And I want to burn. I want both forever. I just want you to be mine mine all mine and you can torture me all you like, but as long as I only want you you will run like a scared stray dog, a war journalist, a criminal. I build stories in my mind of how alike we are, how we operate in the same fevered perverse state, but deep down the thing that saddens me the most is that we are nothing alike: I run to the fire. You just set it and run. Fucking firestarter!