To be exhilarated, euphoric is to be manipulative, deceitful, and intimate. I, a filthy disease; a parasite, My devotion, fondness: is just infatuation I can find happiness, only in people that long for me, in poems I write about me, paintings with my face on it. Happiness, is to latch onto people that love me, that I don’t love back You look at me, our hands a forcefield, sway past each other. Our fingers melancholic to their own choreography- dance. Tiny finger legs go around in circles around your arm. Your thumb a constant pressure on my palm; tease a hold. I am a filthy disease; a parasite, Your hands around my body an invitation to create a home, I change every week. My sweets, don’t touch me. My love is to devour; consume; and suffocate Your chest against mine, allows only one heart to beat- control. Hold me, and I’ll swallow your heart whole. Siphon the goodness out of you into my leaky empty soul. Until our bodies, two clappers inside a bell, clash with each other- serenade us to our deaths. Only I, live off another host, another body to love. Your eyes, now fitted in my sockets, your body erased- perished. You’ll forever see through me edging your memories away, turning humans into ghost- An echo of a haunting floating above your grave. Lie down in my laps sweets, I’m your casket, your home. You can stop searching now.