Section of Dead Times and Poets

you

I live in an illusion.
I live with the constant need to satisfy loneliness.
Death? I fear nothing as much as loneliness.
And even though in my head I see myself killing every time someone gets close to you, every fucking time I feel you put someone higher by ignoring me.
It's always with the same fear of loneliness.
That you will leave me.
That you will leave.
That you will hurt.
I only protect you from what I experienced.
You write your own prose, where the main character must be you - always the smartest one. The one who will fix and save the whole world. Yourself.
The world has not yet seen the likes of us.
Murderous characters tangled with fire.
Twins who are capable of devouring each other.
Fighting elements.
Is it possible to kill your beloved out of love?
Is love not murder.
The rage I get into with you is much stronger than the drugs I took because of you.
In the end, you'll still look at me with those eyes of yours, like a pathetic bastard, a trained thug you need when you need to clean up your mess.
In the story, I will come out as the villain anyway. You will whiten yourself in my blood and sweat, you will be an angel among the devils you created yourself. You will wash your hands when my judgment comes. You will whisper: you were not worth the sin.
It's a pity that no one told me before that this is too good to be true.