I don’t want this. But I like it. Such a conflict of emotions. It’s crazy, because as much as I don’t want it and don’t want to want it, it’s right there in my head. In my heart. In the pit of my guts. I can’t seem to have enough. I know it’s killing me, slowly. But I like this. 

The sneaking. The secrecy. What’s that word? Stealth. It appeals to me. It’s insane that a girl who likes to call herself a typically good “good” girl that never does anything wrong, would actually do something like this and actually like it way too much. What am I talking about? I know I’m just basically talking in circles and not getting to the point and would I freaking get to the point already now that it’s been three years since I’ve been going around it…? 

Okay, deep breath: 

I’ve been in love with my best friend for years now. The way he smiles. Those white, even teeth that happen to be so reassuring to my OCD. His arms that envelop me in a warm, fuzzy blanket of security. His stubbly chin that rests perfectly on the top of my head. The way he just melts away all my conflicts with just one wave. How I love him to death! 

He seems to want me as much as I want him, on the weekends. After he’s smoked enough pot to knock him out for the day; he thinks of me. He creeps into my apartment and gets into my bed. I’ve started leaving the key under the doormat everyday now just in case. We never do it but his giant hands creep under my tee when we are spooning. It feels great. Sometimes he talks in his sleep. Things like how he would have married me if he had the choice, right that minute. Sometimes pot takes over his logical, rational thinking and he asks how many kids do we make. And how he’d love them so much it would hurt. I’m pretty sure he said he loves me the other weekend. Or maybe not. Because he pulled me in and fell asleep with me wondering away all night. 

When he leaves in the morning, still high maybe, after he’s kissed me on the lips, it feels like he’s taking away a part of me. Leaving me to die a little death is each time he leaves. I’ve never felt a connection stronger than this. He brings me to several orgasms, not of the body but of the brain. It’s tangible. I know it’s not possible but it is. He withdraws from me for the rest of the day, cold shoulders me when with friends, disappears for hours on end: when I complain he says that’s not just him, it’s all men. And funnily enough, I’m okay with that. Okay with everything he says and does.

He’s killing me slowly and it’s making me live. I guess that’s love if you think about it. 


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2 thoughts on “La Petite Mort

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