kalischild

I make an excellent lover.

I make a terrible boyfriend.

I like it that way.

All passion, no roles. The honeymoon never ends.

I'd rather gossip about my lover's boyfriends, and support them through the dark times, than be a part of (if not the cause of) the dark times myself.

I want a partner to laugh with, not fight with about who looked at who and why. I've been looking to be a part of a story that doesn't have an inevitable end. I want passion to never fade; to meet a lover in Paris, after not having seen them for years, and to have no regrets; I want never to give the final hug between partners-become-strangers.

I want to never lose a lover to anything but death or distance.

I refuse to ever become an enemy to anyone I have loved.

I've never understood why some people would rather live as serial monogamists; dating and destroying, building up and breaking, hanging all their hopes on the next thin stranger when life gives them the chance to experience everyone, and themselves, every second of the day.

I'm just a little bit to big to be owned, too spiky to live inside the cramped space of another person's heart. The other's heart may be soft and warm, gentle and caring; but that only makes it a gentler cage, and the softer the cage, the more my spikes poke it.

And it's not just me either. I just love to show off my spikes and issues. Half defense mechanism, half mating ritual. But I watch all the "healthy happy" people grind each other's hearts into meat, on a six-to-nine month rotation; telling themselves the whole time that they've found love, until one eat's the other's heart. We are all of us too large to live with someone else's ribs as the bars of our cages.

I make an excellent lover.

I make a terrible boyfriend.

I like it that way.

I've lain with the devil, and just under the surface, it shows.

And all of a sudden, I want a big plate of ribs.

So I'm gonna stop asking stupid questions, and go rip some meat off of some bones.