Objet petite a

Maggie, you are my fantasy. You are that unattainable aura, that faint glimmer of something attractive, something I need and will spend my whole life chasing after, though you'll always remain two steps ahead of me. You are a trick of the mirrors, an airbrushed memory that I'm tearing my mind apart trying to hold onto, trying to make real. Maggie, you are my illusion, my delusion, my death drive. You are my fantasy realized and thus my nightmare. You are the ideal woman come back to strangle me, to kill me in my bed. Wrap your slender fingers around my throat and squeeze. Maggie, I know you only exist to give me something to cry over, to give me a reason to wake up, to give me a reason to participate in this principled reality and to need an escape from it. Maggie, you haunt my unconscious and swallow me up. You pull my strings, and I can't stop. You murder me and bring me back only to keep out of reach, to keep me reaching. You keep me dazed, craving to possess you the way you so cruelly possess me. I drag myself mindlessly in your direction, I reach out a hand to touch, only to wrap my fingers around nothing. Maggie, when I finally get my hands on that moon white skin, I'll have one moment of sheer ecstasy before realizing you're not my Mag, not at all the girl I've been searching for.