Sometimes, I just want to reach my hands around your neck and squeeze. I want to feel my fingers press into you, as though I am clawing my way to your very soul. I want to grab you, tear you, wrip you, crush you, and overpower you, just so I know you feel me, the way I feel you.
See, when I think of love, I think of you. But your love isn't sweet, kind, or gentle. It's a weight on my shoulders. You love me for my strengths, and so you test them. You put that love upon me, and there it sits growing heavier with each expectation of a person I can't always be. It presses down upon me, shoving my ribs torwards my hips, and my stomache inward till I find it hard to breathe.
But I love you for the latter. For all your cracks, dents, dings, scratches, and scruffs, you are all the more beautiful. Like an antique vase, you were molded into the most beautiful design of curves and shape, yet in an instant you can break, shatter into a million pieces, irreperable.
So I've held you, your shapely self, and your love upon my shoulders, felt the weight upon, me breaking my spine like the "snapping" of twig upon in the winter, made frail by the cold. But I am tired of snapping into pieces.
I want to bring you down from my shoulders, till we see eye to eye. I will bind you, break you, mold you, and burn you down in the furnace of love that rages inside me, until you feel the chaos inside me that is this love. And we will burn together, till, as one, we'll melt.