The boy across the street

I think I’m addicted to fear. That’s why I tell everyone my secret, and plead those I tell to expose them. I want to tell him so much that I love him. But I can’t. Instead I spread it around, telling everyone I know, so it becomes increasingly harder for him not to find out. Because I want that fear, I crave it, I need it. It fills the hole in my heart where his love would be, but never will. I say I want him to find out, but how would I actually react? It’s my worst nightmare, yet I wish to get it over with, so I bring it on quicker. I guess I never realized how much I wanted him to only find out from me, or not at all. But I need the fear, without it, I can’t breathe, because there lies the great truth : he doesn’t love me back. And without the fear that he finds out about me, there is nothing there, in the hole in my heart, my soul, and there is nothing left of me. But having him still there, right across the street, might be torture at times, but comforting as well. I dream of him, him and me, and me and him. But though it will never be, without those dreams, I cannot be me.