Out on the moors in the middle of the night, we dance with the ghosts of Heathcliff and Catherine, and when the wind blows just right, we hear the victims of Hindley and Brady having risen from their infant graves by the cries of our childish hearts. With their laughter ringing in our ears as we float above the sodden land, they are ethereal and free, and even though they get so lonely, they smile in the knowledge that never again will they come to harm. Post-coitus, we lie on a blanket of heather with bellies full of wine and I tell you that wherever you go, I will follow, and as my lips meet yours as we drift to the icy waters of the North Sea, there is only us and us is all they’ll ever be. And yet there will always be part of me that wants to see you degraded in the cruellest of ways until you end up as broken and aimless as the man that would greet me in the mirror in those months after you left. Perhaps my behaviour is punishment for how you spurned my love, or could it be that my cruelty is just another form of affection? For as much as I’m in awe of those knowing, brown eyes, the sight of each tear that rolls down your cheeks is like a needle in my dirty veins. From the spirits of the night to sober mornings spent drinking tea as rain creeps in through the kitchen window, I snap and tell you to shut up and eat your blueberries. Quit telling me I’m not good enough to be a writer, I say, and let me run you a bath and wash your feet making sure to massage the space in between your toes because I’m unusual that way. I don’t want a woman to call my own, but rather a goddess that casts her shadow over me leaving me weak and vulnerable and in a constant state of agitation. There can be no calm, only the storm in your arms. When you’re not looking, I take polaroids of your body. Within the pages of my journal I stick them down and masturbate over them until I’m blind and yet despite my best attempts those dreams still haunt me. Y’know, the ones where a hundred baby spiders crawl from your pussy and dance upon my tongue. The ones where you spread your legs and the universe speaks to me of all its secrets of which so many will never be known. There are no jobs, no happy endings or visions of perfection, just the need within me to taste what you are until the day comes when at long last I lose my mind.