Misaki actually wrote something! Run for your lifes!
Do you know how they tell you drugs are bad for you? How they give you an addiction, meddle with your mind, your soul, your life? Make you want to live for them, breathe for them, steal for them? How you can sink so low as to kill for them? They become your purpose, your so wanted possession? Your infatuation?
Yeah... maybe you do. You know that once it starts you will live and die in your obsession. Ask any addict out there and they will tell you that you can stop using them but you can’t stop your obsession about them. I’ll tell you even more, something that they will never say to you: people can be just as addictive as any drug.
You can tell yourself „no!” until you almost make yourself believe it. You can try to run away as far as you can but they stay with you like the rotten memory of yesterdays long since past and tomorrows that will never be. the further you go the deeper you sink; the deeper you sink the more you try to get away only to find that the problem isn’t him, it’s you; you with fucking heart and idiotic impossible obsession.
Why? Because of his nice little manners and your horrible reputation, his pristine blond hair and his oh-so-lame attitude; you see it as clear as day: he’s the good guy, the one who rescues fucking cats out of trees and gets old women past streets while you would most likely polish your shiny award for “the most times used “fuck” in a sentence”. You know this impossible love crap don’t you? It’s the fucking same since Romeo and Crapliet. Shitty story that always has to be fucking true!
You know the drill - boy meets girl, boy likes girl, girl hates boy. Boy doesn’t know it so boy pulls girl’s hair, pushes her over, laughs at her, and makes her life a living hell. Girl cries and runs far away, and boy doesn’t know why he feels so sad and hurt about it. After all, they’re young and naïve, and when they’re older they’ll know what was going on and make things right.
That’s kinda like you and me, isn’t it, Chiavorone? Except for the childish taunts and hair-pulling - although my hair is probably long enough I’m not the girl here an I? We say in bites and scratches and curses and clashes what we fear to actually say don’t we? We’ve been lashing out at each other hitting and cutting ever since we first saw each other. Even after all this time we would still push each other down staircases and wait for the ‘crack’ as the other hits the bottom. I should say if the other hits the bottom shouldn’t I?
The fucking same isn’t it? Except it should start with boy meets boy, right? You are a boy aren’t you Dino-chan? So maybe it’s not the same so let’s rewrite the fairytale Dina?
Let’s see, why don’t we: boy meets boy, boy likes boy, boy hurts boy and makes him cry and bleed and scream year after fucking year. One boy is a blond klutz with a dark past and an even darker job. That’d be you, twit. Other one is a silver angel who fell into sin that doesn’t sing the harp but makes blades dance ---what the fuck shut up idiot I can hear you laughing even in a fucking letter! It’s your fault for fucking a guy called Superbi, Chiavorone. Oh my! I just used the “F” word in a whole other way, didn’t I? And don’t you dare pretend you don’t like it, love. You are way more perverted than I’ll ever be. Shit! You flick a whip at everybody to meet. You’re a lucky bitch I’m not fucking jealous.
Whatever! One lashes and the other slashes and that’s just the way it fucking is. Next thing they know, we fucking know, one’s touch becomes the other’s cage and one’s love becomes the other’s obsession. Should I say they fucking hate it? Should I say one trips and falls because he feels so helpless? The other runs far, far away fighting and just running away because he knows should the first just ask he will follow?
Year after year after year. I hate you Chiavorone. I hate your hair and your lips and you; your touch and your ways that leave me feeling dumb without reason. You make me feel the same: resigned to be your fool. I’m stuck in the same place you made me stay in. You idiotic twit make me spend my days tangled in thoughts of you. Your love became my cage my prison so fucking pleasing.
Hate you, Hate you, Hate you.
I’m exploding like chemicals when I think of you. I’m going crazy, can't get enough my dear, fucking love. My darling little drug.
So yeah… I’m a lunatic. I’m crazy for just a word from you, for just a touch from you. So boy will hate boy and make him hurt and scream and cry. Then the boys become kind of- sort of friends, but they like each other too much for that to last at all, so one day they kiss, and become lovers and live passionately ever after while kicking and screaming because after hundreds of years, this fairytales always becomes true.
So come with me and don't ever say that it's over. I’d kiss your feet, worship the air you breathe and kind of- sort of love you. Don’t you dare say no twit because somehow somewhere you became my purpose, my wanted possession and my idiotic infatuation.
Your love is my gift. Should you ask I’d still follow. I can run but I can’t get away. You can try too and you might just make it; but one day you’ll wake up tripping over the same memories that won’t go away and wishes that will never disappear.
In the end why should you come? Because you’re the good guy, the one that gets cats out of trees and helps old ladies. Because you are my dream, my wish and you’d never leave me stranded in my obsession just like I’d never leave you fucking helpless. Because I can’t run anymore I’m asking you to make me stay.
Come because this impossible love crap is a fairytale that always becomes true.
Twit.