Chapter Text
Can’t a man ever want what he wants to want?
The question sits there, stupid and nonsensical in my journal. The blank page beneath it waiting to be consumed by words.
This is what my therapist told me to do, write stuff down, even if its a bunch load of bullshit. She says it helps me process. I slam the journal shut and slump into my seat, hands in my hair and sighing in despair. What the fuck is wrong with me? I can’t stop thinking about his stupid fangs and stupid artificially red dyed hair and his stupid…his stupid everything!
I don’t even know why I am so drawn to him in the first place. But my evil, evil mind always includes him in everything.
“Do you think he’d want…”
“What do you think he’d think of…”
“I wonder what he’s doing at this moment.”
“If he were here right now…”
I grip my head and close my eyes shut, shaking my head fervently, as if to shake my brain off my head. I can’t keep doing this to myself. God forbid my parents find out I am having thoughts of another boy this way. I wish myself peace. But I wish myself him more than anything. Even if it makes me throw up. Even if it gives me the worst nauseating feeling I’ve had in my life. Because more often than not, the nausea is exhilaration in disguise. An excuse to avoid the way he makes my stomach flip when he says my name. The way my eyes involuntarily look for him in a crowd, despite all eyes on me. The way that I avoid being scrutinized under his gaze, in fear of being flawed while being eyed by him.
I had told my therapist all of this. She said she wanted me to sit and think about what it meant. I am coming to a conclusion that I am not liking what this is meaning to be.
When I think of him, there is no sane thought that comes after. As if all reckless abandon has consumed me. I am thrilled, terrified, and excited all at once, at what this makes me. Given all the privileges in the world that I am allowed, I feel as I am restricted to one of them: the privilege of finding out.