Whenever the feeling of lust engulfs me, I think of her, she who showed me there is more to this place than just confusion and suffering. The lust for love was so great I fell for her completely over the most mundane of instances, but her boldness invigorated me, her touch calmed my fear, and her smile assured me she meant no harm. I didn't understand at the time what I was experiencing, and it frightened me because all previous human interactions felt hostile or obligatory. But this was different; this was something good. For the first time, I felt safe, and I didn't want it to end.
Of course, nothing lasts, and she would be gone from my life along with a piece of my heart that would never return. I cried terribly, for I soon began to realize my hell again. The abuse inflicted upon me felt twice as harsh as before, and without my love, I had no way to endure. Soon the despair beckoned me to the void, so I decided to end my life; however, fate intervened and left me with an emptiness yearning to be filled. I discovered pornography, and while not fulfilling to the same degree as my love was for her, it was new and exciting to the senses which was sufficient enough to allow me to continue enduring this hell.
I want so badly to feel what I lost, but lust and consumption have desensitized me to the point where one smile feels no different than the rest. Now, I can't even remember what hers looked like. I cannot even remember her voice. All I have left is the memory of her presence and the joy it brought me. Now, all I can see is that thing, all I can hear is that thing, all the goodness I once had is being devoured by that thing. It wants her memory most of all. It salivates for it. My lust for her love has become its lust for the consumption of everything it signified, and I feel helpless to stop it.