Obsession
Is this good— to feel this way?
I need them. I need them now. I can’t share them. I can’t let them leave.
But they don’t seem to feel the same. And still, I crave them— in my blood, beneath my skin, stitched to my soul.
I talk to my friends about it, and they look at me like I’m breaking. They tell me I’m crazy, that I need help.
But I don’t need help. I just need them.
Why is that so wrong?
They say love shouldn’t feel like hunger. Shouldn’t feel sharp-toothed. Shouldn’t ache like possession.
But what if they’re wrong?
What if this is love— just the ugly kind? The kind that keeps me awake at night, replaying their voice until it becomes my own thoughts.
But what if they don’t love me back?
What if they find me frightening? What if they hear the desperation hidden between every word I say? What if this “love” is something rotten wearing a pretty face?
My friends say I’m obsessed.
Maybe they’re right.
I don’t want to believe it, because obsession sounds cruel, and all I’ve ever wanted was to be close to them.
Still… love shouldn’t feel like drowning.
So why do I sink so easily into it?
