I don't feel a thing.

Because, it's not about us, it's about me and you. — LightMisa

—

I don't feel a thing.

It's funny actually, because you are all I can ever wish to have.

Somehow, even the perfect match becomes uncannily wrong.

Where you lie, covered in silk sheets and sweat pours down every crock of your perfectly shaped body, eyes brown and warm and open, red lips slightly separated, smile hiding inside—it's like you were created for me. In your world, you are. For you, I'm everything and I know it. It's not about narcissistic believe and naïve interpretations, it's the truth, it's what you have created this to be. It's all and it will never be more.

It will never be about us.

"Baby," you moan and claw your black-painted nails through my amber skin, from shoulders down my sides, in a struggle to make me feel more, make me consider what you undeniably try to give up for me, understand that you are everything that I need. Truth is, though, that you give me too much. You give and give and somehow it turns the wind against you. I stop caring and I stop believing in a continuation of this never-ending relationship that's all for you and nothing for me.

I'm not your baby and I'm not your lover—you are only ventilation for a selfish mind that needs verification.

I never needed you. Sorry Misa. I only use you.

"Misa," I pant out as you are sliding your damn hands between my two legs, desperately trying to roll up the heat in a room dead cold, work my dick to wonder, cover my mouth with hot and moist kisses to pretend this is just a phase and I will smoothly walk around it if you show me how.

The problem is, that everyone can make me horny—it's not you Misa, it's a gift everyone has.

How can I ever tell this to you?

For you, naivety is the only thing you have and you use it to make me believe that I'm the only one you need. I have given you what you lacked and if I choose to leave you—it's the end for you. End for you and what you will archive. I know that you love me, it's not hard to see. I know how much I mean to you and it makes me sad. People around me know I'm an awful person and I'm not going to argument with them—but they don't know that I really don't want to do this. Who wants to be a dick? Who wants to use people for their own personal needs? It's just, when I start, I can't stop. My dreams are so far away, never to be granted by my skills alone, and somehow, right there, people stop being people and become tools for me to use.

I use people and I use you. You don't give me the sensation I desire but you give me something.

Something is always better than nothing I suppose.

"Misa," I try again as you're rocking your thin hips against me, pressing your round breasts against my face, fingers clawing everywhere, from my groin to my back. Everything about you is perfection, I know it, you're so cute, almost beautiful and it's really a shame that I can't see it, or rather, can't appreciate it. You need someone that can. You need attention and special treatment and it's really nothing wrong with that—but I'm not the one that can give it to you. I can give you nothing and you can give me nothing.

We both have everything to lose. Sorry about that.

"Light—" Why do you always sound like a girl from a cheap porn-movie and why is that so fucking unattractive? "—Please. I want you. I love you. I promise, I will give you everything you want. I need you, you know that. You are everything to me."

It doesn't make me happy to hear that, it opens the ground to a world unseen and lets me fall along. Every evening is the same repetition of a world I don't want to be a part of anymore. My world is to grow wise and famous, not growing stuck in a relationship that gives me nothing.

The problem is, it's so damn hard to leave. Sometimes I wonder if it's Misa that's to blame, maybe the dilemma is more widespread than your neediness. It scares me, more so, it makes my core fucking explode, I can't deal with the thought of not being able to love the opposite sex, because if I don't, what kind of man am I? I should be able, it's written in the bloody law, or norm, and if I fail at this—what will I become?

Why doesn't this work? C'mon, Light, feel for Misa. You can. She's very cute and very kind—she's perfect for you.

You aren't.

And I'm a coward that keeps trying.

"I love you too, Misa," I lie and dip my nose between the cleft of your breasts, running my hands from them down to your smooth stomach, earning your gasps of pleasures in my ears, which—of course—makes my erection grow limp and die.

Please, please, please.

I cannot—

"Light?" You ask and blink two times, long, black eyelashes sending straws of shadows on your blushed cheeks, "Is something wrong?"

Think about something else, think about something else, think—

And, always, the same thought penetrates my shield of thoughts, ruining the perfect painting with black smudges, which in a way is my savior but keeps me from gasping the truth and use it.

"I love you, Misa," I repeat and all the time while I press myself in you, push, make you scream, moan my name over and over—it's never about you.

The sad thing about all this, really, is that I on the inside know what's wrong.

It's just that no one will accept it—and neither will I.

I'm so sorry, Misa.

I'm sorry—

I'm—

In reality, I know that I am—

I can't say it.

—

fin