Wicked Game

The yearning for you was what was killing me. 

The yearning for you and not even being able to tell you. God, how it would ruin your perfect world. I’m trying to be good. I’m trying to be a good person. But my mind will not stop. No matter what I do. It refuses to stop. I’m so tired. My eyelids are severely heavy, I crack the window, light the incense, inhale the smoke, and try to cleanse myself of it all. I notice it’s raining outside, lightly, as dusk approaches a cloud-covered world. It’s that fresh smell only summer rain has ever had. I let my room stay dark, while the orange ember of the incense stick burns. I want it to suffocate out my every thought… until there is only silence. Until you and your boyfriend, well mostly you, are gone. Erased, and only a clean chalkboard remains. 

I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

But nothing can stop the thoughts when they race the way they do. They seem to like that much more because of the fact you're forbidden because you belong to another. Even though I know it’s wrong. God, it’s so motherfucking wrong. But my head, it’s convincing me that I want you anyway. That I need you. That there is something about you and me that is fundamentally the same. That flat, calm, smooth spot in my chest when I think of you. How the same scrutiny plagues your gaze as it does mine. But how we’re different beings as well. You are sweet and lovely, and your hands are surprisingly soft when they have briefly touched mine from time to time. Though never in a romantic way. How your eyebrows raise and the wrinkles form on your forehead when you question me. The curl of your mouth into that conniving, sharp smile, into your teasing laugh. 

Shit. I’m doing it again.

I slam my forehead dramatically into my pillow. As if the drama made any difference. As if it could get rid of you. I practically see you every day. And my first thought upon seeing you is that I just want to touch. It’s simple, not a vulgar want in the slightest. I just want a little warmth. A fraction of your attention on my being. For us to just lie in a bed somewhere, arms wrapped around each other, pollen in the air, and you’ll say “I wish we could stay here forever.” and I’d say, “Me too.” Fuck, I’m sad. And dumb. But it’s eating me alive inside. This “want” for you. This “want” for no reason. 

I thought this would pass by now.

It’s been months since it started. Crushes usually pass by now. They usually fade away into whispers. But this is crazy, I must be finally going insane. The worst part is you're not even consciously doing anything. You are just being alive, you are being a normal person. 

And I’m a fucking psycho, apparently. 

Who’s obsessed against their will. I don’t want to be obsessed, but I am. How is it possible to have such little control over your own mind in this manner? I should have control over these thoughts, even if they are intrusive and beautiful compared to my reality. It doesn’t matter. Those thoughts of you are not for me, they’re for your boyfriend. Someone who has a right to love you. The only one allowed to think of you that way. The only one allowed to assign songs to your visage and think about kissing those lips in his free time. To fantasize about getting his hands in your hair, about your hot breath against his ear, about loving every inch of you…

Shit. Fuck. No. No. No. Bad.

I’m awful, I’m awful. We are essentially strangers. I need to think from the outside. Look in through the window. We do not really know each other. Yet in all the times of my loneliness, which is a lot nowadays, I find you there. Waiting for me. With a joke. With wit and snark. Like I’ve known you forever. And we’ll argue, but we’ll laugh and come closer and closer until I can caress your cheek and press our foreheads together. This is all in my head of course. And I wonder why I think of you at all? I think it’s the comfort of you that I crave. The comfort of someone real, like how you’re real. Like how I know you’re real. Does that make sense? Would that make sense to anyone if I told them that? 

My eyes are burning and I feel like I am centuries old.

And I am ashamed because I love you. I mean I guess it’s love, I’ve never felt this way for anyone before, so it must be love, right? And I’ve actually talked and conversed and have solid real memories with you. None of them are at all of a romantic nature, not in an obvious way anyway. Probably in no way at all. It’s just that I can’t describe these feelings I have. Especially when I know there is no way you feel the same way. I am a footnote in the grand context of your life. Insignificant, a character you’ll have once known. You don’t go home and think of me while you lay in bed, while you shower, while you make yourself dinner, while you play cards with your sister. Wishing I was there. To converse with you, or just lean your head against my shoulder. Wishing I was yours. Like I wish you were mine. 

You do not do any of this because you already have someone to love.

Someone who takes up the spare space in your head that you can actually do these things with. The only thing I can give credit to myself for is that I do not wish your lover ill. I am simply sad the position is already filled. Does that keep me from my imaginary scenarios of a different reality where he does not exist at all? No, it does not. But I am aware enough to where I will not try to steal you away from love, a relationship that already exists. I will not bad talk your partner when he is brought up to make myself look better. In fact, I smile, because I hope it will aid in the deterrence of my brain from you. 

Sometimes I swear I’m cursed.  

The thoughts never end. The day begins and starts with you. A never-ending cycle of your face, and sunlight and smiles and your face breaking into the most beautiful laughter. How I rarely see you break like that with anyone else. How I don’t break like that around anyone else. How I just want to hold you at least once, before I leave this place and never come back, God willing. But before my departure, I just want to feel our torsos connect and see if the hug is as perfect as I expect it to be. 

I’m a paranoid son of a bitch too.

I’m worried that it’s plain to everyone how much I admire you. That every time your name comes up in conversation it’s obvious I think of you far too frequently. That when you're around I stare too long, that my eyes linger far too long when we talk. I worry if everyone, including you, is laughing at me because of how painfully obvious of how infatuated with you I am. Like I’m just a child who they all can’t break the news to because it would be too sad. But it's also a funny joke they can’t bear to break. A big skit. Then on top of feeling like a piece of shit to myself, I’m a laughing stock to everyone else as well. I kind of wish I was dead. You would too if you knew all of this. I’m hoping I can still be cured. That the fresh air will be let in any day. That perhaps I can find someone of my own still. And I won’t be thinking of you for the rest of my life. Perhaps I can even get a life. I shall leave. I shall leave and then perhaps everything will be okay.

I’m just so tired.

I want my peace of mind back. I’m almost mad at you, if I didn’t know any better it's like you cast the curse yourself. Just to ruin my little life. Just to entertain yourself. But I know this is impossible… most likely. Please, I just want to be free. I’m not sure if I really feel all the lovely things I seem to have felt for you. Perhaps this is just my loneliness pretending to be in love. Because it can’t find any of its own. For some reason, it needs to find the closest person I know and extrapolate them into a version of themselves that loves me. That really isn’t real, just what I want to see, what I want to experience, but never will happen. Because it’s me, my mind making all this bullshit up to amuse itself from the lack of love I give myself. 

Unfortunately, realizing all of this still isn’t stopping you.

You are still just as prevalent as you have been. And continue to be. And perhaps it will all get to me, and I will end up, in my demented state, begging for you, the real you, to take me. To just love me. And everyone will be confused and you’ll be terrified and I’ll feel even more unstable than I did before. But at least I’ll have actually done something about it. That’s leagues different from what I’m doing now. Sitting in my room, pondering, questioning, sleeping, thinking, thinking, thinking about the stuff I want to do. But never having any of the guts or passion to do any of it. I think I used to have those things, it’s been so long I cannot quite remember, however.