This is a love letter from a sociopath, let it serve as a warning because I cannot help myself.
I am beautiful but empty. I crave your light, because in my eyes you are the sun. Blinding. Your insides shine just as brightly as your radiant exterior, I envy it.
I'll snuff it out.
Usually my interest in a girl wanes as soon as I've enjoyed her once but you, you make me curious. I analyze you, your entire being, document and forgive every flaw I find because they don't matter in the face of my desire, but they will.
I learn everything there is to know about you and become what you desire most. My attention is a focused laser, baring your soul.
I'm enjoying myself.
I need you.
You lose yourself into the person I appear to be and I feel something akin to fervent, fevered obsession, perhaps that's love.
You've filled me up.
It's fleeting though. I do not view you as my equal because you've too readily bought into my facade. You are beneath me, my inferior, a pawn to be controlled.
I don't trust you either.
It's not that you've done anything wrong, but because you shouldn't have trusted me.
My fingers wrap slowly around your soul.
I break you down, inch by inch, word by word, until you're a shell of what you were, you're easier to control that way.
My silent war on you defiles your self esteem pervasively, you're a muddied reflection of the beautifully vibrant girl I fell in love with.
You are a shadow cast in dying light, stretched thin by sunset.
My knuckles flex as I begin to squeeze.
It's over now and at long last you are truly, irrevocably mine. My interest in you is gone. So too is the interest I had in keeping up the facade you fell for.
This is the closest we'll ever be because now you see who I really am, it's ugly. I'm ugly but I don't care.
This is your fault too. This is your fault for letting me in and this is your fault for letting me own you. I hate you for it.
I view you as my pet now, an accessory. Every word spoken is tedious and every thrust into you is a chore.
You bore me.
I make plans to move on. I'm a coward though, solitude scares me because it means facing the revolting reality of my being.
So first I line up another girl, another victim, and drag her to the edge of my web, primed, ready, waiting. She doesn't know a single thing about you and I'm a different person with her, by necessity.
Finally I dispose of you, and you are broken, and I am free.
In my hands you are crushed.
The cycle repeats.
I'll think about you though, later, when you're someone else's. I'll burn this whole fucking world down to get you back and hurt you again.
I cannot help myself.