Sometimes, you disappear. You think I don't know where you go, but I do; I'm a detective, after all.

You used to follow me, too. You'd come after me, to the bars, to the clubs. You'd watch the guys I'd take home. The tall ones, the dark haired ones. The ones that looked like you. I kept trying to find a version of you that was whole. A version of you that I could have for myself, where we didn't have to walk a tightrope.

When I stopped taking home your type, you stopped watching.

I started following you out of curiosity. I followed you to see where you went, who you took home. You don't have a type, not in looks anyway. You have a sixth sense for the damaged, the broken. The girls who are carved out on the inside and replaced with something cold and inhuman. Something defective and warped. You find them, and you snap all the whole parts they have left, until all that's left is broken pieces.

You act like you do it out of intrigue, or because you're not looking for anything serious. But it's all serious. It isn't a game, for you, it's a calling. And now I understand. I understand why you look at me with that hunger. I understand why we walk this tightrope. You say you only want the broken and the damaged, but the truth is that's all you can get. Anyone who's whole can smell the rot on you. It seeps through your pores and says, "I'm broken. I was torn apart and put back together by a novice."

I can see it in your eyes, behind the carefully erected expressions, behind the delicate facade. One day, it will all come crashing down. One day, the tightrope will snap, and will will tumble down, and down and down, until we are both broken.

And neither of us knows; will you try to save me, or will you pull me down with you?