accismus (n.)

accismus (n.)

feigning disinterest in something while actually desiring it.

God, I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to kiss and kiss and kiss him. Did people lose their minds when they loved someone? Who was I? I didn't know myself anymore. Shit. All my disgusting, fucked up fantasies are because of you. There's parts of me that will always be tainted by your hands your hands your hands your hands. I'm terrified of change. I'm terrified of staying this way forever. I imagine the way your body might press into mine if you fell asleep in my arms. It's a comforting fantasy that helps me sleep at night. I find traces of you in every crease and fold of my bedsheets. It's a heady image, imagining how your lips might feel pressed onto mine. What kind of kisses would you give? Would they be rushed, messy, passionate? Or would they be gentle, shy, scared to draw blood? Chapped lips on chapped lips. I know you're straight. I know the thought of loving me that way makes you sick. I know you'll fall in love with a girl. I know your private touches, your private glances. I know you're capable of love. I know I won't get any of it. I know your parents. I know the expectations they have for you. I know what the world thinks. How strange is it to be anything at all? You have calluses on the insides of your palms and on the sides of your fingertips. There is a prominent vein on the outside of your hand that runs all the way to your wrist bone and up your arm. You bite your cuticles, and there are red specks on the skin that joins your nails and joints. I'd love to see your hand hold a cigarette. It’s beautifully revolting. I would kiss him and think about kissing you. You're woven into everything I do. Every poem. Every song. Every breath of air. I want to press my tongue to your neck the way a cannibal would before tearing your skin apart. I want to write music about the way you sigh. I want to interlock your fingers with mine, fire and ice. Yin and yang. Whatever we are, I just want to bury my fingers in your hair. It's an obsession, maybe.