Bill Skarsgård • Roman Godfrey Imagines

Twenty Five

Being with him makes you feel like you could survive solely on the sweetness of his tongue. You are in a permanent state of oblivious starvation, being around him.

It's hard not to look into his eyes and feel like you're swimming in the middle of the ocean. You're not sure if you're terrified or exhilarated just to be free.

He swallows you whole like the sun does to the midday sky.

You're warm and safe and infinitesimal in the moments he holds you, and it makes you sick to your stomach.

Because without him your days are numbered. You are human. You will rot and drown in an emotion that consumes you whole, eventually, maybe.

But would it be worse than drowning in this sickness? This love that feeds the hole inside your chest, that fills up your open wounds with a bitter stickiness that reminds you of cough medicine.

His lips kiss away all the bad memories and it's a hit everytime he calls you beautiful.

Again again again you beg and his mouth delivers per your request, and you are plagued by the bliss that clouds your thoughts.

He hums as you fist his hair in between your fingers as you whisper secrets to eachothers tongues, and it feels like a dream. You do whatever it is to stay under.

The idea of living without him is excruciating and that in and of itself is what reminds you that seeking help is the only answer.

How else would you live with this? This sickness?

You know you aren't alone.

Everyone in the world can be diagnosed, but trying to rid yourself of his scent and taste and the way he says your name against your collarbone as he fills you up with dopamine is harder than anything you've ever done.

You are Twenty Three when it gets worse.

You cry and scream and growl like a wolf fighting for its territory and it's all because of your open wound bleeding onto the carpet.

You were always told not to pick at scabs, but sometimes the gnawing urge creeps back into your bones.

Especially when you feel like this person could be the cure, finally.

Your tears are soaked up by the fabric of his cotton tee shirt as you rest your cheek onto his shoulder like a child, his arms encapsulating you as they have many times before.

He makes it up to you by kissing every inch of your body until not a centimeter of skin has not been appreciated.

You are Twenty four when you smell cherry chapstick on his lips.

His skin doesn't smell like home. It smells like walking into a freshly painted house. Everything is sterile. Nothing is familiar. It makes you feel cold and lost.

He cries and screams and growls like a lion challenging it's opponent for a bleeding carcass when you push against his broad chest for having lipstick smeared on his collar.

He makes it up to you by gripping a fistful of your hair as he pumps his life essence and sorrow into you from behind. 

You are cold when you wake up. The room feels sterile again. Less lived in. You think you might be dying when you realize your home is vacant of everything that ever made him seem real.

It's like he didn't even exist.

You are Twenty Five when you realize that there is no cure for love.