Do you ever wonder what it's like to hurt people? To hurt the one you love most, the one you hold most dear to you?

I do.

The amount of times I've thought about the damage I could inflict on your perfect body. The careful knife wounds I'd leave on your chest, down your arms. How I would watch you bleed for hours, sewing your mouth shut so you couldn't scream as I sliced through your tender flesh.

I'd keep the bloody sheets. I know I would. If I had the guts to do what I've imagined, what I've dreamt about so many times, those sheets would never be clean again. I wouldn't stop until every last drop of your precious blood had dripped out of your wounds and you let out your last whimper as your heart finally stopped. Then I'd fuck you, as you never let me when you were alive to give permission. I'd fuck you until the fragile skin broke, and you'd scream and cry if only your lungs could respond.

And then I'd take you apart slowly, bit by bit. Leave you in places all over the house. Just so I could be reminded of my masterpiece. My very own Mona Lisa. I'd marvel at your beauty in the afterlife, how much better you'd look cold, no life left in your graceful body.

I've lost count of how many times I've imagined it, how many different things my sick, twisted mind has placed in my head, contaminating my mind, affecting my dreams, making me see things right in front of me, hear voices so loud in my ears that weren't even there. Just illusions. Every time I slid into bed with you, I felt filthy, like a rat in a hospital. Something that shouldn't be in somewhere so clean, so perfect. I've spent hours awake next to you, too afraid to close my eyes in case the thoughts come back, or the voices. You look so peaceful when you sleep. Your face relaxes completely, your breathing slows to a steady pace and you only move about twice every hour. It's like you're already dead.

It got really bad a few weeks ago. In the middle of the night, I had to stop myself from ripping your throat out and watching the blood drain from you. I hid that whole day. I locked myself in the closet and wouldn't come out, just in case I did something.

Because I don't want to kill you. Really, I don't.

I love you.

But that doesn't stop the fact that I'll do it, one day. I'll do everything my sick mind wants me to. Maybe they'll send me to a mental hospital, or prison, or somewhere deep underground where all the fucked up, crazy people go. I know that'd happen. But it doesn't stop the need to watch you break underneath me. To watch you struggle for breath as I wrap my hands around your slender neck and choke all the life out of you.

That's gonna happen soon, I know it.

I'm sorry.