If you say you like me just once, I'll put that single word in my mouth and roll it around for a long time. Until it melts. I'll hide it under my tongue, wedge it between my gums, and keep it there, unable to swallow or spit it out. Your voice is strange. Every time I hear it, the inside of my body tickles. It feels like a small fingernail is growing somewhere in my stomach. It scratches, and scratches, and scratches, finally trying to pierce through the flesh. But it doesn't hurt. I actually like it. It feels like proof that you're inside me. Sometimes I like you so much that I wish you would disappear. Isn't it strange? If you disappear, no one can see you. No one can hear your voice, no one can see you smile, and no one can carelessly speak your name. Then I can have it all. A single strand of your hair, the dust under your fingernails, the leftover water you drank, the smell left on the clothes you took off. I want to divide it all into small pieces and keep them. So they never rot. So they can never run away. Don't worry. I won't hurt you. I told you I won't kill you. There's no way I'd do something like that.