When something becomes obsession it is rotten. He was trying, really, trying hard and hard day to day. But in the night of his mind there was flesh and pain and moans. Consumed by lust. The sin of lust. When the flesh hurts another flesh, when there is blood and soreness, when the pleasure becomes so exquisite that is rotten. Because there is hate in love too. In the night of his mind he didn't know if that was a memory or a sick desire. All he knew was the heat and his own body melting down his legs and the trembles and the harsh voice whispering in his ear. I don't love you. And then he was miaowing just fuck me, I don't care.
I don't love you either.
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