I love the most unpleasant parts of you.
I only love you when you’re bad—mean, angry, upset. I like when you hold grudges over nothing. I like when you interpret compliments as sarcasm, are suspicious of love. You’re more beautiful drunk than sober. I like when you binge drink, when you kill yourself with drugs, when you numb your mind and body to the world and, finally, smile at me.
Now I’ll never enable you in these things. Always, always, always I’ll tell you to stop—to be prudent and good and kind. To drink your water and eat more than once a day. But you know I don’t really want that, don’t you?
I want you sloppy or I don’t want you at all. Your sinning is sustenance to me: it’s watching you I can countenance myself and carry on. It’s for the world you suffer—and yourself is the world. Burn yourself to white ash. Die before you become old and ugly, with knotted limbs and wrinkles lined with regret. Never stoop. Your height is half your beauty.
Of all times and places I am glad to be alive here and now.