fear disaster; tom riddle

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I feared you with every fiber of my being.

I feared the way you looked at me with that hysteria in your eyes, the type that reined lunacy from your pupils, the type that told me to run without even uttering a word.

I didn't run though—but I should've .

come out, come out, wherever you are!

I feared the way you spoke to me with venom and spitting toxins on your tongue. It scorched my skin till in blistered before your eyes, and my ill-attempts of sheltering myself were inefficacious as your bane burned my guise, for your laughs of pure derision tied my hands to my back and challenged me to retry.

try again, I dare you.

I feared the way you made me feel Tom Riddle.

I feared that diminutive and indefinable nudge at my conscience, like needles to my skin, prickling just enough to paint pretty little imperfections that beg me to stay just a little longer.

Stay with me tonight

You whisper in my ear. It was sweet and innocent, and I thought in that moment, when the moon incandescence made your skin glow like silver, and your eyes so deep looked like shining celestial bodies, that maybe that was you—the real you. I wanted to make a wish and watch the stars shoot—the gods arrows piercing my skin with your radiance.

But it wasn't radiance, it was poison, and I decaying.

I feared that if I stayed—when I stayed, you'd realize I wasn't what you thought I was. Your abstraction of my pure as snow proprieties would be bemired to mush of melted tar and disaster. I feared that you'd hate me, I feared myself for letting you.

But most importantly I feared—no, I hated the fact that despite all this, despite your cruel intimidation, despite your beguilement, despite the fact that we promised: no fixing,

I wanted to fix you.

I wanted to mend your broken soul, the one you split so recklessly. I wanted to place bandaids on your wounds and kiss them till they healed, I wanted to make you feel the way I did—and howbeit I knew you'd deny it- a part of me believed that you did—feel. But even so, I hated myself for it, for the gullibility, for falling in your trap—the little mouse and the serpent—and your venom left me bleeding.

I suppose you don't realize your faults until its too late—in my case, too late meant six feet below ground with wilted flowers as a remembrance.

But they say better late than never, right?

So watch out Tom, 

I'll be staying longer than just the night.