To Etch My Name Into Your Skin

  You ever feel like some people aren’t meant to be explained… just felt? That’s what you are to me. You don’t make sense. You just exist—inside me, under my skin, pressing against the walls of my ribs like you’re trying to claw your way out of me.

I hate that I see you everywhere. I hate how your skin devours every color, how it makes the fabric you wear irrelevant. Nothing competes with you. Nothing survives next to you.

I don’t want to know love with you. No—that’s too simple.

I want to consume you.

I want to etch my name into your skin, draw maps with my mouth, leave bruises like landmarks. I want to follow your heartbeat until I lose myself inside it. I want to feel you break when I pour the wax over your body, watch you shudder, watch you take it.

I warned you. I told you. You’ll get the version of me the world isn’t allowed to see. The part I’ve buried so deep I almost forgot how it breathes.

My hand closes around your neck—firm, deliberate—not enough to steal your air but enough to remind you it’s mine to take. I press you into the wall, the ice-cold bite of it kissing your spine. You gasp—sharp, desperate—like you’re choking on the weight of me. Your breath comes in ragged bursts, loud, too loud, and yet somehow you’re still so quiet. Like you're afraid to make a sound but terrified to stay silent.

Your eyes find mine. God. You trap me with that stare, you drag me under it.

There’s a tension—thick, electric—I can taste it in the back of my throat.

I know you’re already gone. Already trembling. Already wet long before I ever touch your clothes.

I don’t remember locking the door. I don’t care. No one else was ever meant to walk into this. Not this. Not us.

Because even we weren’t in that room anymore.

We left our bodies behind.

We were somewhere else.

Somewhere I don’t think we’ll come back from.