I want to tell you.

I want you to find out, and be angry with me,

because you should be,

you should be very angry.

I want you to find out and then ask me why,

and then I want to tell you.

I want to tell you everything,

and I want to promise I will heal,

and I want to promise never again,

even I have no intentions of doing so.

Because I like it.

Because I crave it.

I dream of it all night,

and I imagine it all day.

I like myself this way.

I know the facts.

I know the toll this will take

on my body, my health, my brain,

my lips, my teeth, my sanity,

but I don't care.

And yet, I want you to,

because if you cared about it,

it would show you cared about me

beyond a fake friendship,

beyond what it seems,

it would mean you wanted me around for

more than ten years

after we've said goodbye.

It would mean secretly, you wanted me in your life.

I want to tell you.

But of course, I never will.

Secrets are poisonous, and this one is set to kill.

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