I drew your face where  Patroclus would lay, 
But not mine where Achilles would ache. 

The world tore us apart, and I let it, 
But you— 
You found me at the moonlit lake, 
Where shadows whispered truths I dared not speak. 

For every sin I’ve committed, 
I carved another wound into your heart. 

I sought absolution, and they told me to refrain--
"Refrain from helping you?"
How could I bear such misery,
When leaving you feels like carving out my own heart?

But saving you is not enough, 
Not when I crave to own you, 
To be a god within your universe. 

They cannot name this feeling, 
This chaos, this sickness, this devotion. 

Pretend. 
Pretend I don’t know the sound of your breath, 
The rhythm of your pulse, 
The scent of you lingering in the air long after you’ve left. 

Pretend I don’t dream of binding us, 
That I don’t long to tear you apart 
And stitch you back together 
With threads of myself. 

You speak, and the world falls silent. 
I close my eyes, and I see you. 

You’ve invaded every corner of me, 
Every fragment of my being— 
Until I am no longer myself, 
But a vessel for you. 

And yet, why do I dream of your blood? 
Why does the thought of piercing your fragile skin 
Feel like the only truth I’ll ever know? 
To destroy you would be to destroy myself, 
But even that destruction feels like eternity. 

You and I are not two. 
We are a singularity, 
A chaos too vast to contain. 

Your soul writhes beneath my touch, 
And my essence seeps into your cracks. 
I have changed you, yes— 

But I’ve become monstrous in your shadow. 

I could never harm you. 

And yet, I have. 

Every piece of you I’ve taken— 
Every tear, every scream, every shiver of your fragile frame. 

You hate me, 
And still, a mere pane of glass separates our souls, 
Reflecting back what we’ve become: 
An ouroboros of love and ruin. 

We ended this beauty together, 
A masterpiece of fire and ash. 

I would burn a thousand lifetimes 
Just to hold this fleeting moment, 
Where our destruction is complete. 

I love you. 
But you cannot survive me.

I drew your face where Patroclus would lay, 
But not mine where Achilles would ache.