Limerence

A voice whispers to me in my sleep. Comforting, like a familiar scent that evokes memories, though I can’t make up my mind whether or not this scent is of the good kind. Like Belladonna it seems deceiving, seductive and poisonous, yet I can’t help but be tempted to let it in even if I know it might hurt in the end.

A voice, familiar like the swings outside your old elementary school, and it takes me on a ride and I’m not sure if I should be on it. Like the swings they occasionally twist and turn and I know I might lose control along the way, even though the ground won’t be too hard to plant my feet back onto. Yet, I know how tempting it is once I’m flying to not go back, how tempting it is to continue feeling the air in my hair rather than not feel anything at all.

She is familiar, like a kiss from a previous lover that you know might have emotional consequences, yet when it’s good, it’s so god damn good there’s no point in resisting.

And it makes you crave the kiss from a stranger even more, to explore unfamiliar territory with your lips and tongue, let them guide you all over their bodies, your hands following the trail, until they try and push you away, in which you reply “not this time”. Or I would leave them as they tried to push me closer.

I was a vampire once, and I fed off of the pushing. I enjoyed the hunt as much as letting my prey suffer. Kiss their lips sore or leave them in an empty bed. Stroke their neck and let my breath linger there before moving on. A smile before leaving the moment they would approach. I was playing dangerous games and enjoyed it. I enjoyed the attention, and how my aura would change at night, attracting the boys that never enjoyed my company in the sunlight. And I didn’t like them either, but our minds didn’t matter past 2 am. 

 

And she wants me to get infatuated with every moment that evokes a sense of thrill, those moments you know you're in control of. And people's faces all seem like new opportunities to explore how eyes can stop people in their tracks. 

Infatuation comes easy, like a daily routine, and even if my surroundings aren't as pleasant as they used to be, I fall in love with it all, over and over again. And it poisons me because not everything is worth an infatuation, yet my head wants to feel some connection with it all.

Life, the universe, a lust for danger and street lights that enlighten me. The blinking OPEN sign over the kebab shop, a half naked woman over a big black door that leads to a basement - they're not the same as those signs in the city of dreams or the city that taught me how to grow up the right way.

And they're all her, they're another person inside my head, all those thoughts.

Because I feel a struggle, yet I have nothing to struggle through. Nobody should know every answer to life. Although the struggle to achieve the one answer I know cripples me every day. Maybe having no questions is the secret to life without struggle.

Have I worked hard enough? Will people remember me for my work or a starry eyed stare they might take as deceit, as wanting more than a friendly handshake? Will the fact that my hair is long and my infatuation with everything stand in the way of it?

Little do I know. All I know is that I need to stop

 

writing.