deadravenkings:

“If it means losing you, then no.”

“violent delights have violent ends.”
you laughed the first time you heard this.
you are well acquainted with violent ends,
violent beginnings, violent middles—
they don’t call you “monster” for no reason—
but damn if there isn’t anything more foreign to you than a “violent delight.”
you’ve always been one step ahead of everybody, though.
so you think of it as skipping step one,
getting a head start,
and saving yourself the inevitable heartache.
(what you don’t know is that this isn’t a race that you can win)

“violent delights have violent ends”
to have a violent end, you must first have a violent start.
but you know better than anybody else
the anatomy of a violent start:
you kick off your day with cold sweats in bed
and flashbacks of hands, hands, hands—
You swallow your pills
and chase them down with anxiety techniques,
scrub out that awful taste in your mouth
and stow your sorrow in the bags under your eyes.
the sun isn’t even up yet
and you’re already itching to put your fist through a wall.
you look at your brother sleeping in the bed across the room
and wonder if your first act of violence
had been shoving him aside so you could enter the world first.
you think you’re starting to become too good at violent starts.

“violent delights have violent ends”
you think about violent middles for a second,
but oh, wait, here comes somebody new:
another violent start.
and you decide that this time your “hello”
is a racquet to the stomach—
is him doubling over, world crackling black,
barely holding himself together.
“nice to meet you” comes out as “fuck you” and
“my name’s andrew” is a promise for
collateral damage and complications.
“i’d like to get to know you better” sounds a lot like
“oh, oh you might actually turn out to be interesting.”
but you tell yourself that this is nothing—
just another harrowing feeling that you’ll burry
because you’re acutely aware that nothing will ever come from it.
(nothing ever does)

“violent delights have violent ends”
and you had convinced yourself that you wouldn’t ever get a violent delight—
had told yourself that those were reserved for people who had souls—
but, baby, you’ve been a liar for as long as you can remember.
you’re pathological, obsessive, habitual.
this is a violent delight, this isn’t a violent delight.
you want a violent delight, you can’t ever have a violent delight.
even now you can’t tell which is the biggest lie.
if you’re being honest about one thing, let it be this:
you are absolutely terrified of this boy.
you are horrified of what he’s doing to you.
you want to go back.
you want this feeling to stop.

“violent delights have violent ends”
he is everything you’ve told yourself you could never have,
he is milk and honey and he is hope,
he is hands that don’t make you want to recoil.
he is keys and stay, stay, stay.
he is teeth on lips and skin against skin.
you can feel yourself blooming from the inside out every time you touch.
he says he wants to be inside you,
and you hand him the knife and tell him to start carving.
(but darling, i have to warn you:
he might taste like honey—
sweet and delicious and nice sliding down your throat,
but too much will make you absolutely sick.
be careful.
don’t get greedy.
don’t get hooked on something as dangerous as that.)

“violent delights have violent ends”
you feel warm.
no, you feel hot.
too hot.
you’re burning.
you’re exploding.
you’re ruining yourself repeatedly over this boy.
you’re thinking that this isn’t the story that you wanted—
you want something better,
you want to not be afraid of this,
you want to not want this.
“help me” sounds an awful lot like “i hate you”

“violent delights have violent ends”
he’s at 100% and you’re tired.
(but 9% of the time you think that killing him is the one thing
that you won’t be able to come back from— he’s the one thing it might hurt to lose.
8% of the time he feels like falling,
but for somebody who’s terrified of heights, that’s a terrible and frightening sensation.)
you’re at 100% and you’re scared,
because you finally realized that there’s no going back from this.
you got your violent delights— you got him , and you got love, and you loved in return.
too fast, too much, too soon.
you don’t know what the word “moderation” means when it comes to him.
you will burn up in victory.
but you’re starting to think that you won’t mind—
you have him. he has you. everything else is background noise.
love-destroying death can do whatever it pleases.
suddenly, a violent end doesn’t seem so bad when it comes to him.

“I hate you.”