FIRE.

First love, the only thing that lasts forever. You are unsure about the “forever” part and that is so brutal I wish I could rip out my dripping wet heart and throw it in your cruel face. I won’t accept your fake excuse of my being too young or some sh-t, I’m old enough to freaking love you. I am working on calculating forces of nature that will will you back into my arms. It requires science and field research. You are charmingly deluded in your assumptions that you can disappear by hiding. Luckily, this won’t get in our way, thank Google search.

Like the love, first things first. The inside of your apartment is delightfully gross. You don’t belong in this dump. I’m sorry about letting myself in, by the way, but if I need to explore the inside of your everything and use the knowledge to guide you back to me then that’s what’s up. It’s not like you ever extended an invite, and since I love you, I deserve to know: why the f-ck not? Imagine if I didn’t fight for you, how upset would you be? You sensitive soul you.

As my Facebook status says: the way to my loyal heart is through lighting it on fire. You have committed an arson. I don’t know why you insist on calling it a crush, it was true love from the start, more like a curse if you had to label it – and stop it with the letting me cool down, I don’t want to cool down, I want to be here! Grown-ups fell out of love with young love at some point – really, it’s tragic to be old in these rejuvenating times. I’m going to blissfully dismiss your opinion, LOVE is the reason I am in your sh-tty mouldy crib, proving to you how committed I am to mending our relationship. Don’t confuse this with obsession.

Oooo, what have we here? Pictures by the bed. This is so old-school I could die of cuteness. You are a poem and your friends look like assholes, we won’t need to keep them. I imagine you smiling your intimate smile as I take a snap of me on your bed – sexy pout, bra tastefully exposed just so – and in the future we could add it to OUR adorable bedside collection. It would really pop if put next to the picture of your family, though maybe slightly more to the front.

The bedroom is neater than the living room, there are books, a bong to enhance concentration on the reading material, I wish there was a laptop I could hack or a phone, but I don’t see one. A few CDs (OK, grandpa). Thankfully, no trace of secret wives or children – which is a relief though I already knew you are an honest man. I see a neat little package and the red lights flash danger. I open it roughly, hello, photos of randoms whom I’ve never met but who could totally be my friends because I swear we look the same age. You are of mixed race and none of them is so that robs you of the they-are-my-sisters card. One minor is whatever, an envelope of them is a grooming crime.

You will apologise but I won’t forgive you. I will turn this hurt, this burning in my heart into dusty pink ashes because romanticism is what we have in common. A realisation, a proof, a logical conclusion must reach you, like Juliette’s letter had to reach Romeo, that I, not those irrelevant skanks, am your destiny, I AM your star-crossed lover. Once, I had unsuccessfully experimented with burning my doll’s hair, and while my mother was furiously slapping future curiosities out of me, I incidentally learned a lesson: a lighter is a way better tool. Don’t worry I will help you get the little sluts out of your mind, you won’t even remember they were ever in the envelop. Even at my most traumatised, my first concern is you.

You’ll do your best to stifle uncontrollable cries – unsuccessfully –  when you realise who the sleeping beauty in your flaming bed is, you will make a devastating attempt to give me back my sizzled breath because you won’t believe you’d cope with the tragedy of losing me, you will mourn me until your own judgement day.

I will wait to warm you with my burning arms, in hell.

(September, 2018)