kennel recidivism

I wish that I were capable of being the person I appear to be, in fleeting moments and in my projections of something approximating the self. I wish that in all of my years that I would have learned a single thing about how to exist in this world and how to behave, how to feel and how to maintain a relationship. I crave an affection that I am so often offered and yet when I begin to settle too deep into security I feel the need to throw it away, to make myself something wicked and unkind so that I can force you to hate me. I think I enjoyed too much the way you devoured my heart entirely and demanded more, the way that you tore me down to the bone just to lick the bared underside of flesh between your teeth. Your love is something violent to me and I have always been something so fragile and yet with such a need to be bent and broken. The only way I know how to be loved is to be flayed and bared for you, laid out across a dining table with my most vulnerable fat deposits and orifices exposed to an air that will be unkind to my exposed nerve endings. But now I am bone and little else, licked clean and gnawed to the syrupy marrow that paints your lips a crude and offensive white. Perhaps there is irony in the fact that the very thing I craved about you, your hunger and lust for possession, are only now real fears of mine once I have already been laid to rest. I have given everything my body has so fruitfully produced for me, I have bared my throat and told you to tear it out of me. I am so tired. The useless morsels remaining of my body not churning inside of you are left little more than the weariness of living. No longer evenly divided amongst my organs and skin, I feel everything so deeply in the bones of my left leg. It hurts. It hurts.
I want to run away from you. I want to run away with you. But is that even true? Do I wish that I long for the days of our lives spent together purely to satiate the part of me that wonders why it's all worth it? Perhaps I still harbor my teenage rebellion, perhaps I want to prove wrong the people around me who knew rightfully that I should be planning without you in mind. Maybe I want them to be wrong not because I want to be right, but because I don't want them to be. I don't know if I am capable of love. I don't think I am. I want my body ravished and taken apart and put back together the wrong way. I crave to be reconstructed with the sinews upside down and the muscles backwards. I don't want to get married. I don't want what I have, and I don't want you to have me.
I don't love you, but I love you so terribly that the grief takes hold of my body and brings bile to my throat. I don't love you, but I should. I think I love you.