The Life can eat me for all I care. He never asks me now. The Life is like wool, expensive, yet almost unbearable to touch. I collect memories like mothballs; they seem so disposable at first. But they linger, never fully going, ever under my skin. The Life is heavy, like a mountain of cotton candy that wisps so furiously to crush m He breathes hot putrid air on the back of my neck. He is the stalker I love. His fingers are like stealth intruders that invade my skin in waves. I echo his footsteps in ignorant defiance. The Life knows that I need him. I know that I am disposable. When I think of him my eyes grow narrow. Evil becomes him. The Life gives me ideas. They are more frightening than The Life himself. I can no longer see anything else. I remember wanting to escape him, But now I become him. He is everything and nothing, all my feelings past. Sweet tastes of the sand and the earth and the sky and the air he gives me. I have done all I can for him, but he sustains me. He is the death in me like a rotting rose of intense beauty. He is the life in me like a roaring lion that feeds me with his blood. The Life is everything in me that makes me feel shame. He is everything that makes me me.