I'd like to scrabble my own skin. I'd like to tear it to pieces, whole, and find a reason in me. The own reason. A not confered one. A selfish one. I'd like to hate me. Hate me the way you know how to hate me so well.

I'd like to find in the words an inkling of rationality. A faint calling to home. A reason.

I'd like to place a mirror in front of my eyes. I'd like to live your lie. I'd like to believe me. What a great liar I am.

I'd like to breath in, filling my lungs with your hair's aroma once more. Just once more.

Sasuke.

And that word is my everything.

My reason.

My excuse.

My mistake.

My obstacle.

My question.

My goal.

My end.

I go through thousand colours in a moment, which seem to be projected through your eyes, like prism.

For you're my reason to see. My reason not to close my eyelids. Waiting.

I shiver lightly, trying to melt my matter. To be my own creation. But I don't dare.

For you're my excuse to this fake. To fail. Delighted to fail.

I remember have holded you; trembling. Your so graceful as fragil body giving itself over me so easily I was afraid to breath your air.

For it was my mistake to love you. To love you since the very day you were born. The day I decided to live for you.

An almost foreign heaviness, as if my being could materialize out of my body and mock me, slowly takes me.

For you are my obstacle, that which prevents my teared body from falling.

I still see that dissapointment in your eyes. That image provokes me nauseas of pain. And I can't understand why. Why did I ever denied myself to your will.

You're the question I'll never be able to solve. Why all of this passion. Why this irrational and unconditional devotion.

Almost with cynism I laugh at my pathetism. And I'd wish to boast about my goodness. To feel proud.

For you're my goal. I'd wish you knew the truth, and then hugged me. And die. Die with your forgiveness.

I smile at you, feeling my soul slide slowly over your chest. I feel the pain. The physical pain. A last breath. The last breath. Which is by your side. Breathing your very same air. Telling you, at last, there's no next time. Looking right in your eyes, feeling proud of dying, of living for you.

For you, Sasuke, you're my end.

...*...

It doesn't matter anymore if what Itachi felt for Sasuke was beyond brotherly love.

Somebody dare to tell me Itachi didn't love Sasuke unconditionally. That he didn't live for pure devotion to his little brother. Somebody tell me I'm wrong.

I don't need them to have sex to know Itachi loved Sasuke. And that love, that complitely irrational passion, well... they deserve to be written in thousand of stories.