If you ever want some trouble, but can't afford the alcohol, I'll be here waiting

I breathe you in as though you’re some rare find. I want to inhale you and have my lungs contain you and nothing more. But it’s suicide and I know it. It’s suicide, and we both know it. I want nothing but peaceful skies, fields of fucking flowers, and sheer happiness running through your veins and you want nothing more than to make it from day to day still on top. You never want to feel an ounce of vulnerability. You never want to lose your control. You never want to feel anything except victory and satisfaction. And for that I am sorry. Because you make me feel as though i am drowning in vulnerability, you make the best attempts I’ve seen at taking away my control, you make me feel like a failure, and you make my breathing come to a standstill. Can we say recipe for explosion? I hate the way I can feel you in my bones, but sometimes I like the games you play. Let it continue because I always know your next move.