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When you get your hands on me again, what are you going to do? I always wonder. This whole time I’ve sat in my pathetic pity, stuck in this delusion that just maybe: you think of me as much as I think of you. Do you really think of me at all? Certainly you remember me, you still know me. But do I still hold space in your mind? How much? A symptom of this head-case is the assumption that I have not been forgotten. The rerun in your thought, an obsession, the replay. It will be so funny to somehow find that you in fact, do not think of me at all. My pathetic sniveling little insatiable urge to be desired, I’m obsessed with the idea of your obsession with me. If it is not there I am dead, because you rebirthed me. The power you hold over me still; astonishing. If I were to find that you do not think of me at all then I am dead. I think of you always, I need you to think of me too. As if we are halves that will soon meet in the middle once more. Are you going to find me? Are you even looking? When you do, surely I will feel fear. I will feel fear and I will think back to all the times I spent in yearning for such a moment, and perhaps regret. It will not matter, fate leads the willing and drags the unwilling. I have always been of the willing. Your little willing victim, your obsessive little girl. Virgin and sweet, starry-eyed pet. I have such a strong feeling that I will not live a full life, I always have this background picture that inches close to me with time. This picture is painted with my blood and your blade. Surely you seek my revenge. Surely you wish to make me pay. Surely you still know such a grave and foundational part of me is eternally bound to you. My soul. You and I are intertwined despite every restraint against us. I wonder if you plan to meet once there are no ties to hold you back. I will not seek you. I will never search and insert myself for you. Yet I truly believe that fate will bring you to me once more and for all.