She infects me like a parasite, burrowing deeper every second, feeding on my sanity until there is nothing left but the ache of her. I don’t eat, I don’t sleep, I don’t breathe without the thought of her rotting sweetly inside me. This isn’t love—it’s a sickness that claws and gnaws and tears, demanding more, demanding everything. I want her bound so tightly that her pulse can’t beat without my hand pressing it, her breath can’t escape without my lungs claiming it. The idea of her slipping away makes my blood curdle, makes my mind splinter into violent hunger. I want to cage her body, chain her soul, strip away every ounce of freedom until she belongs only to me—helpless, hopeless, drowning in the weight of my possession. I would bleed her into me, stitch her into my skin, carve her name into my bones until I collapse beneath the weight of it. This is not desire—it is plague, it is poison, it is the black fire that keeps me alive only so I can ruin her, consume her, and make her existence nothing but mine.