The mafia deals were Dad’s poison, not mine. But then again, maybe I had my own poison—and it wore a suit, slicked its hair back with gel, and smoked cigarettes like each drag was a command I wanted to obey. You.

Every time you walked into our house, I felt like a bug pinned to a wall. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Just waiting for you to press harder until I cracked. And fuck, I wanted you to. I wanted the humiliation of being caught staring at you, the sharp cut of your indifference. It wasn’t enough to look at you—I needed to hurt because of you. Needed it to make sense of the pounding in my chest.

I swam circles in the pool just to keep my body moving, so I wouldn’t crawl over to your chair like some half-starved stray. The water clung to me, dripping, heavy, but it wasn’t as suffocating as your gaze when I caught it. And you did look, didn’t you? Pretended not to, but I felt it, and it made my skin burn.

You probably thought it was wrong, perverted even. Maybe it was. But wrong tastes sweeter. Wrong digs its claws deeper. And I liked the idea of rotting from the inside out if it meant it was because of you.

So I climbed out, water sliding down my body, my chest buzzing with that itch again—the itch to throw myself against the fire and let it eat me alive. My hand found your shoulder, a feather-light touch, almost innocent. But inside, I was screaming: crush me, ruin me, I’ll thank you for it.

“Can I have one?” I asked, pointing at your cigarette. Voice calm, almost shy. What a fucking lie.

Because what I really meant was: let me take the smoke straight from your lips, choke me with it, burn my lungs until I can’t breathe without you.

But I smiled like a good boy, dripping water onto the ground, pretending all I wanted was nicotine. Meanwhile, inside my head, I was begging you to tear me apart.