My lust for him is more than sexual;
Its violent, its hunting a deer in the tall grass, its chasing a hare across the meadow with the intent of tearing it apart for sick pleasure. Its watching, waiting, hardly able to tame the hunger as he walks past, god forbid he talks or sighs or smiles or whimpers. I want to hunt him down, I want to take what's rightfully mine, hunt it, catch it and devour it.
Its angry, its screaming at each other before falling into the sheets, its bruises and bite marks and tightening hands around necks, slapping his cheeks red raw and causing him to bleed. Its screaming at him to behave himself, its taking out all my stress of his innocent body, its leaving my mark with hand or tooth.
Its evil, its losing the little good left in me and giving into my cruel desires for him, its wanting to rip open his chest and curl up in his ribs so that I can feel his heart beat, its slowly, methodically picking apart his bones, binding him with rope so he doesn't escape my grasp, pins and blades dissecting him for my pleasure.
Its ownership, its knowing he's mine, always was, always will be, begging for my forgiveness and earning it in his dumb, soft way; its collars and piercings and tattoos and hair pulling and name calling and its all mine. He's all mine. Its knowing he lives, breathes and dies for me.
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