Uncontrollable

I've never met someone that can make me feel so terrible that I'm effectually rendered useless, until now.

I like him, meaning that he makes me fucking crazy and I would give anything for him to be sent back to Chicago.
He's talked about suicide in recent days, and I doubt I'd even mind that, as long as I was there to watch.
I look past him when he's talking to me. I roll my eyes at him. I yell at him. But when he turns on that face, eyes welling, lips trying to smile but puckering so the corners creep down, pleading, shoulders hunched, hands not strong anymore but easily pulled away from, there's nothing I can do.

He's been talking dark lately. "Give me more pain." "Make me bleed." "Maybe I'll just kill myself." But he doesn't say those things with the face above. No, those things are said with a smirk. It's a smirk that hides whatever is really going on in that brain very well.
I'm scared of him. And I think I always knew I would be. From the very beginning I got this sense that he was lying to get what he wanted. Those kinds are frightening; you never know what they'll do and then be able to trick someone into thinking they didn't.
But am I only alarmed because for once I'm not the intimidating one... I'm not the one dominating. I'm not the one that makes or breaks. It's not my decision to take the life.

We were walking in Crystal City a couple days ago. It was 10:13, after I had seen him looking at himself in the art exhibit windows--he was clearly reflected in the silver--putting his finger perpendicular to his throat and sliding it across his neck. There was this creature, thoughtful, kind, in love with me, with his back to me, but the window showed something so different, an angry, uncontrollable, jealous beast. I wanted to console the one and run from the other.
We were walking through dimly lit parking lots with sparsely scattered trucks and vans, on our way back to my SUV--a haven with all my self-defense tools locked uselessly inside.
He touched my back as he whispered, "I'm falling in love with you all over again." The muscles in my butt tightened and made my back clench. It wasn't the kind of tensing because he is my love and his touch makes me melt; it was the kind of tensing that someone feels when their kidnapper puts a blade to their back and tells them it's going to be alright.

I'm scared though I love it. I can't get enough... It's like being addicted to skydiving, tattoos or performing onstage. The adrenaline rushes through your body, fight or flight are both vying for attention, and, like that, it's over and you're still alive, stronger. The adrenaline slowly subsides tingling under your skin, like an orgasm dissipating.

Even if he hit me, even if he raped me, even if he killed me, would I be able to despise him. I already do despise him, but like he says, "I'm addicted to the pain."
Would I forgive and forget? He'd show up outside my work a couple days after the attack with that look in his eyes. I would have no choice but to touch his face. My arm would lethargically rise as if I were in one of those fair rides--spinning so fast that the G-force makes your body heavy. The world right outside the metro would spin, colors blurring and noises softening and I would only see him in that moment.

Him with the dagger behind his back.