This is Not a Love Story

I know you only in parts, in moments that we share.  I see glimpses of you, only.  But those glimpses, those moments, those parts of you that I know, that I see, they combine to make me love you, a love that seemingly consumes me, annihilates me and totally, utterly, finishes me. 

You’re a cheat and a liar and I’m grateful for it, for otherwise I wouldn’t know you the way I do.  You’re a brutal sadist, taking only what you want, stopping only when you want, no regard for my tears, my pain, my wish that you would stop.  And I’m grateful for it, and I give you myself to brutalise whenever you want because it makes me feel alive, to be your’s, totally possessed in those moments.  I know that sometimes you’re uncomfortable about the violence in you, but not too much, only enough for decency’s sake.  You’re a very clever sociopath, keeping that part of you hidden from everyone else, even yourself, even me, until after the dinner is eaten and the wine is drunk.  You’re a consummate charmer, with a smile that melts my heart and a touch that makes my knees quiver. 

You excite me, you flatter me, you make me feel sensuous, captivating, alive.  Those parts of you that I know, they keep me sane, and they drive me insane.  You smile at me, and I’m smitten.  You touch me, you kiss me, you hit me, you stroke me, you knock me senseless, with your nonchalance, your you-ness.  You're kind, tender, caring.  You don't have an angry bone in your body.  I love you, and I can’t help myself.  I am your’s.  Entirely.

I hate you, I despise you, I can’t stand you.  You make my skin crawl, you make me want to scratch your eyes out, like I always want to scratch your back, to mark you, the way you mark me.  You’re a cheat and a liar, and I love you.  But it’s a love that only exists in moments.  Perfect moments.  But moments, nonetheless.