Dear Doctor,

Once upon a lullaby

My dreams were filled with you and I

With tender kisses, one by one

With nipping teeth, and dancing tongues

Fingers tangled in soft hair

Sounds of love filling the air

I love the pain brought on by you

I wish that you could feel it, too

Every Wednesday he would pick her up in that box. That beautiful blue box which held the universe behind it's doors. And every Wednesday Clara told herself it would be her last trip. The Russian submarine, the haunted mansion, Yorkshire, Hedgewick's World; each one was meant to be the last, but each one never was.

She was addicted and she knew it. Addicted to the adrenaline that burned in her veins when they ran, addicted to the thrill that shot up her spine at every new destination. Even the chance of death made her face flush red with excitement. She hated it; and yet she loved it as well.

And when the time finally came, when the two were to go to Trenzalore, she told herself 'this is it. This is the end of it all.' When they were finished here, she would cut herself away from this toxic life.

but she couldn't .

Even when she essentially committed suicide for him, she could not leave. Even when he acted like he didn't give a damn, she could not leave. Even with the

thousands,

millions,

billions,

of voices swirling and churning in the poor girl's head, making her vision blur and never allowing a meal to stay down for long; even when she felt she could not stand with how much her agony weighed her down, she could not leave him.

It wasn't the traveling. It. Was the traveler. The man who whisked her away, it was his fault.

Because it wasn't the adrenaline that seared her blood, not the destinations that gave her the thrill, nor death that made her flush red. It was him, and the spell he had cast over her.

So when he left her, unannounced, to deal with her crumbling form, her broken life, she should have felt relieved. She was released from a terrible, toxic prison. She should have been thankful.

But she needed him.

She needed him like she needed air; even with the acid that fell from her lips, the voices that never let her sleep, the ones who told her he was filthy and good for nothing, she needed him.

When he returned for her at last, the sound of the universe floating on the breeze, she was waiting for him.

Waiting with a love letter and a kitchen knife.

The letter was meant for him, and him alone; after she drove the knife into both hearts, she snatched the letter from cold hands and tossed it in flames. And she dragged his body into the TARDIS, her new home, and sat with it in the console room, sitting in comfort with the voices that never ended.

And so, Doctor, I say to you,I love you, and you should love me, too

The blood runs sweet over my hands

And I'm sorry if you had more plans

But you are like a drug to me

A drug that I no longer need