get out

You can't be in here.

Your scent at the door is irritatingly pleasant - and my mind toils in the distress of confusion. 

These tangles of vines that tighten around the curves of my brain torturing me until I let you in. 

You can't.

You can't come in. 

You can't be here spying in my window teasing me with dark adventures like some sweet demon whom I can hardly resit.

I want to let you. The mischief we could make.

My mouth salivates at the hint of entertaining you. 

You must go.

Why are you here at my door anyway?

I gave up on you a long time ago.

You liar and cheat and thief and coward and tease.

The wall slams against my head as I watch myself finger at the thought of letting you in.

Why do I do the things I want not to do? (romans v:xv)

Am I weak?

Am I bad?

Am I all those small black tar like pieces of gristle that infest all we humans?

Am I more those pieces than human anymore?

Go away.

Please.

Just go away.