Angry letter from R to Enjolras

I hate you until my bones ache, I hate you until I tear bloody chunks from my flesh, and the blood drips down my arms and runs all over my cock and turns white when it reaches the tip. I hate you until I have no more hate left in me, only red and white and blue tears that swirl across my vision and turn to maddening snowflakes and freeze me and leave me blind. I hate you until I love you, and each moment turns to regret, like acid that burns my throat until I vomit it onto paper, each word choking me, making me retch my anger, my disgust, in ink. I hate you until I love you, until my heart can't take any more and just stops, forcing me to ground wherever I am, whoever I am, grinding my knees into dirt, wood, stone, brick, voices, faces laughing all around me, pain aching through my chest, legs, mind, soul. Through my hands as I slam them down, again and again until they're bloody, if only in my head. In my life I do none of these things, I haven't freed myself enough, I'm not wild enough to perform these actions, but oh, do I think them. I call these thoughts one by one like beasts, but I'm never sure if I control them or they control me, only that we're driving each other mad. The way you and I drive each other mad—we can't be together and we can't be apart, and we can't just fucking die. And we can't just fuck. And we can't love and we can't hate because the two are the same for us, we can't have one without the other. I love you until my spine bows with it, starting at the base of my skull and running, running all the way down, an electric shock spurting from my brain straight to my cock, finally leaving me. Sticky. I love you until I hate you again, and no matter what I'm feeling it's always pain, always grandeur and awe. If you were a building, I would build you, and you would be beautiful and cold and lovely and serve no purpose but to be lonely and inspire and make men wish they could enter you, only to discover there are no doors, only barred windows. Untouched, untouchable beauty. If you were a dream I would wake screaming and crying and clawing at anyone who came too close, and that's what you've done to me. You make me doubt everyone, everything, everyone who's come close to me, who is close to me, who will ever be close to me, until at last no one will want to, and I'll be alone. I thought that was what I wanted, and at the same time it's what I fear the most. If I were dead it wouldn't concern me, but life, as life always does, has slipped her claws so deep inside my chest that it feels like love. And there's nothing I can do to escape, no way to leave without disappointing, no way to breathe without falling apart, no way to sleep without you. Where the hell are you? What country is your heart in, and why have I never been near it? At birth you sent it far away from you, so that no matter how close anyone got to you, your heart would still be far away. No matter how much you love, how much you're loved, you're never truly touched.

Your heart stole my heart, took it to that far-off country, and now I'm the same as you, only not half so lovely or desirable. You took all I had, but I can't hate you for it. I don't even know why I hate you any more. For leaving me. For making me into this beast, this demon of desire, with this craving for flesh. Not to eat, no, that's far simpler. Simply to be close. To hold and touch and forget, for a time.

I hate you until I love you, and I love you until I drop dead and stop twitching. That's all.