Lovely, what do you think of me? You don't know me all that well, I suppose. Oh, we've talked and laughed and shared our secrets, but what does all that really say about a person? You would argue that it says quite a lot, I'm sure.You have the most enchanting eyes. Have I ever told you that? I should. They're clear and bright, like you. You're dirty, darling, and you can match wits with the best of them, but you have no venom. I like that.
Now, I've gotten off topic: What is it you think of me? I think you think quite highly of me. Funny. I wouldn't. But then, I know so much more about myself than you do. I have half a mind to lay it all out before you. Or better yet, prostrate myself and let you do it yourself. Dissect me; really get in there; pull it all out. Dirty your hands with my inner self.
The strangest part is, I'm not all that bad. Not, at least, by this society's standards. But yours? Oh, sweetheart, I fall painfully short. I wish you knew. I wish I had the courage to tell you.
What would you make of the thoughts that have been racing through my mind, of the plans I've constructed for my life? Oh, don't get me wrong, you wouldn't leave. Things would be different for us, though. You wouldn't think so highly of me anymore, and I'm not sure I can live with that.
If I let my desire consume me, well, I'd drag you down with me. I'd sit with you on this sinking ship and laugh as we drowned. I want to touch you. I want you to fall asleep next to me. I want to watch you and know that I've won.
It's not about satiating the flesh, love. It's about bringing you down to my level. I want to squeeze you until all the goodness runs out of those stunning eyes. If you can be broken, then I can't be that bad. I can't be that bad.
Don't hate me. I'd never do this. I love you too much. I love you more than I hate myself.
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