Young Writers Society

I want you to tell me a secret. I want it to be your deepest, darkest secret and I want it to be me. I want to be your secret. I want you to take my head in your hands and pull our faces close together and whisper it in my ear, my name. Just say it. Just say it softly and let me feel it warm in my ear; it's not the same anymore now you said it. When it's your voice it's a different name and it means you - it means your name, and it means your name and my name are the same name, and that name is the name of our quest together.

Perhaps I'll take a walk inside you in the vivid dark hues of your world; and you can go inside me too, where it's bright and white and blinding - but I know you'll be strong and persevere until you find a little drop of colour somewhere. And I'll find a light to illuminate your hills and valleys. I'll find a sun for your sky and you'll find us a little cottage on a hill somewhere to live underneath the sun.

That would be lovely.

But secrets hurt sometimes, and I think I'm hurting at the moment but I'm not sure. It's deeper than that - it's a city. It's not a stupid hill it's a tower. I want you to take my head in your hands on our balcony on a sky scraper and watch the cloudy people underneath us zooming for the trains which are zooming past the people for their destinations. And their destinations are zooming as the world turns and we don't turn with it. We don't. Because we're not exactly alive at the moment.

I think you have beautiful brown eyes. I think you smell like happiness and sadness mixed together - it's like something you drink made of sorrow and it makes you really happy because it makes you realise how lucky you are to just be standing there living and breathing. I think your hair is lovely when it hangs down in the wind. I think your tongue tastes beautiful. I think your body feels warm, but I know it feels nice.

I think you are dead. I believe that I would give up my life for you, because I'm dead as well, and if we kissed then something would happen and we would both realise we're not in heaven anymore. Let's do that. And then I want you to take me to a library and read me Shakespeare, because Shakespeare knew something we didn't know. That's what I'm told. And I want you to read me a travel magazine and show me photgraphs of nature.

That would be lovely.

I strongly believe that we would then go home again. I believe that underneath your shirt there is a canvas for me, and you would take it off. I will take a paintbrush and draw little hearts all over your skin because that's what they told us to do in nursery school - draw hearts for Valentine's Day - they never said anything about skin but we're grown up now. I think skin goes well with you. That's my artistic decision.

I think we should both get undressed when we get home. I think that would be lovely. I want you to take a paintbrush and put wet paint on my skin as well, red paint like blood. And blue paint like... freedom. And green paint. In my opinion, we would finger paint each other and as the paint gets hard on our skin it will hurt slightly, tightly, as if we're imprisoned in cages of each other's adoration. But it will be a nice pain.

Some pain is good. Sometimes it's pain that makes us produce art, and it's a kind of pain that hurts and feels wonderful at the same time; it's like we're overpacked and stretched with each other. It's like you breathe life so close to me that I can barely contain you, and my heart won't beat fast enough, and my body won't move strong enough so that together, we create a life that neither of us can catch up with and live.

I think we should both get undressed when we get home. I think we should be wet with paint, because water gives life. I think you should put your hands on my back and my hips and you should touch me with a smile; and I'll touch you back with a smile. And I'll put my hands on your chest and feel how your heart beats as if trying to escape from your ribs. Ribs get in the way. I think our hearts are like sponges. I'll take a sponge filled with red-paint-water and squeeze it all over you like someone I'm cooking for dinner.

And I'll lick it off you too, because it's poisonous, and I can't drink your real blood. I don't want to anyway. I want to give you something. I want you to have my blood, I want you to take it. And when I bleed I want you to tell me I give you life. I want you to tell me a secret. I want to feel your presence inside me, rubbing against my being, slipping into my heart where it will find a nice, moist place to grow. I want to feel the elctricity of our souls hurtling back and forth, back...and forth...between us. Over my front and my back and my feet and my hands.

And forth. And forth. Do you remember when I told you we were making a world where neither of us can catch up with it? Well in the end we'll go...forth! And we'll do something impossible and actually, we'll catch up with it and it will be the most amazing thing we've ever done before.

I want you to tell me that you need me and that without me you wouldn't be who you truly are, and who you were born to be. I want you to tell me that I am strong enough to keep you alive, and that you won't love me until I love myself, and that if I agree to it, you would love me with all your heart. I want everything I do to be for you, and I want us to enjoy the thought of it when we're old. I don't want to let go of you until we're old and die. I don't want to die. Please.

I want to smell you and taste you and feel you on my skin, I want to hear your soft moans of awakening and see your shining eyes seeing me. I want your fingers to draw love on my skin's canvas because it's all for you to create. I want you to be my artist.

I don't want to make sense!

I want everything to be clear and you just take away all the death in my life. Just strip it off of me and throw it out of the damn window. Let me stand there in your arms and be your object and nobody else's. And I want to hear words sliding quietly off your tongue as you lick me like a gobstopper - you know those ones that are too big to fit in your whole mouth. I want you to draw hot, wet circles on my neck with your tongue - and on the sides of my body and the backs of my legs.

I want you to sigh as I melt away in your grasp, as we fall to our demise, unless Da Vinci or something saves us. I want you to sigh! Say my name again and let out your air, and I want to breathe it, and bubble like boiling melted chocolate, curdling all over your chest. I want you to need me.

That would be lovely; and that's my secret.

I know it's stupid and childish.

Was this like a day you felt something and just wanted to rant about it? I'm still in my early teens so most people my age I would expect to write such a thing but its still an extreme. I really can't grasp an opinion about it. Sorry. I would look it over. If you're having a rant day, make your writing into a draft and then next time you look at it, edit and you'll get something unbelievably wonderful. Some rants could turn into something beautiful. So good luck and keep writing.

Was this the entire thing, or is there going to be more? It seems like there could be more but that's just my opinion. It's really good. I love the sentences and your structure. I like how you put in the paint and what the colors stand for. This is really good to be honest with you. It moved me when it you wrote, "I don't want to die. Please." That one line was really moving.