Suffocation

When I die, I want him to kill me. I love him so much that I would let him do that. Not really. I hate him. I love him. I must—oh yes I must—feel his fingers wrap around my neck and lock me still. I want to be looking into his eyes when I die. How beautiful. I want them to be the last thing ever that my eyes will see. My useless eyes, so hideous compared to his, I felt so bad whenever I had to look him in his eyes. And oh dear how I wanted to beat you. Beat your achievements and beat you to death, but instead I’m letting you do it to me. I don’t even understand why I would ever want you to kill me. But one thing I know, the last smell I want to smell is the scent of your cologne and the last thing my skin needs to feel is your fingers around my neck. It doesn’t matter how hard I’ve tried to beat you, it just has to be you who finishes me. When in despair I think of the killer and it makes me ecstatic. And preferably, before your hands block my ABCs, make sure your lips give me one last kiss. Kiss and kill. I hate you. I hate you with my life. My life that will cherish at your hands. I hope you’ve thought about how sexual an act strangling is.