I know about love. Love, the word with the big letter L, the one thing people spread around like a fucking stop-word and yet seem so hesitant to declare. Love, the drug, the passion, the fire, the feeling down there when you’re all getting hot and you feel it’s wet and sweaty and open, open like Sesame’s Cave… Love, I know love. But you don’t.
I have felt a man’s body move upon me, seen the animal that’s in our genes but not in our beliefs. I have observed the adoration a man can show for a woman, how he can feed her ego while she feeds his lust. Relational Commensalism. I know about it.
But have you ever felt the passion burn so hard that it hurt you, like a knife was cutting you open from the inside out, leaving you in a pool of blood, skinned alive, your intestines knotted up, feeling like you’re choking in your own body fluids? A pain so bone-chilling, spine-tingling, freaking blood-curdling you thought you would die while begging for more?
There is no vehemence, no more excruciating avidity than hatred turned to love. Ravishing, sadistic, obsessive, compulsive. Hatred turned to love.