Sweet... (freewrite)

I suppose you found your way into this world quite by accident. You were never meant to arrive, and I was never meant to meet you.
Don't you see, sweet? Don't you see how damaging this meeting has been for us, and how much better we each would've been alone. Without meeting each other. Because then, if we had never met, we would've forever been alone, wouldn't we?
Was it really wort the price? Did we really have to give all this much to get us? Perhaps so. I no longer know what to think, my sweet. There's little point to thought, now.
It's a tad too late for that.

I was sitting alone, in my attic, only it wasn't my attic, which has always baffled me most. I was sitting in the attic of a house I'd just rented. I had to be alone for a few months. I wanted to put my thoughts together, honey, not have them taken apart. Couldn't you have waited?
But who am I kidding? Given the chance to send you back, I would have never done it, and we both know that. Don't be silly. Don't even listen to me.
Oh, sweet.
How very damned we are. Damned and condemned.
I sat, trying to collect enough courage from the many old things that my even older landlady had stored up there. I wasn't even looking at the closet. I had tried opening it only a few days before. Why not then, huh? Because I wanted you to come out? Anyway, I suppose I did. Why would I be pulling at it, if not? I looked through the books and the memories that were not my own, hoping to piece together a character strong enough for even a short story. I needed to write something. I was desperate enough to steal.
And then you came. You opened the door to the closet, from the inside, like it was the most natural thing in the world and stepped out. You looked at me like I was the most peculiar thing in the world. Perhaps I am.
Perhaps I am...

And I haven't been able to write. I haven't been able to think, sweet! You take up every thought in my brain, every waking moment and it's killing me. I try to break myself away, my love, but you don't let me. I know it's not your fault. I know you don't mean to do that, but you do.
I am a writer, but I no longer remember what I was going to write. I can't find the words. The only thing I find is you.
And the only thing I want to find is you. I tell myself different, but it ain't true. You're the only something that interests me. With your strange skin and your foreign look. I think I want to find inspiration, to think without you in my thoughts, but I pray for you there.

I've been up there many times since, you know, to your entryway. Into this world. Into my life. And I try to remember who I was, sitting there, when you came. I try to see the faces of the people I loved and remember what brought me joy or what annoyed me. And I can't, sweet.
I can't remember who I was before you came and it frightens me.
Because what if you leave?

I've smashed up the closet and burned it to pieces, closing your entry way, but what if you find another? Who will I be then?

Prompt of the day was 'entryway'. Oh, that rhymed! Anyway, if you'd like to join the freewriting fun and give your brains a whirl, check out @mariannewest's blog.

Thank you for reading,