Muse of Your Hunt
Lisbon, Cuba, Romania.
Where else could I go?
I wish I could enjoy the run, but your shadow engulfs the view.
I wish I could change my name, but my body is vexed with yours.
I wish I could leave you behind, but I always leave a trail of fear for you to sniff out.
Like a panther, memorising the luxurious, frantic pounding of my heart.
A shameless part of me thrills at the hunt.
The music blasts in my ears, a roaming beat that caves my heart in remembrance of you.
And of how you never really stay in remembrance.
I loathe you.
The rough stubble I cannot resist, the black swallowing me along with your irises, the way you breath my name, so electrifying and so utterly haunting.
I hate you.
And I hate how deliciously and desperately I crave you.
I want to vanish.
I want to hide.
I want to win this round.
And in the next round I want you to find me.
I want you to bite me.
I want you to pull my hair and tell me I have nothing beyond the bars of your arms.
I want to run forever.
I want to fight forever.
I want to be yours forever.
Hunt me.
Kill me.
Love me.
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