Tom Kaulitz— Diary of an Obsession.

The Center of My Disorder I don't know when it went from being a whim to being my religion. Before, women were like gusts of wind: they arrived, made a noise, and left. But you... you are the air itself. And I'm suffocating. I have your scent engraved in my memory: It's not just perfume, it's that aroma of skin and home that haunts me even when I'm in the studio. I've got your steps counted: I know it takes you exactly twelve minutes to get from work to the bus stop. If it takes thirteen, my pulse quickens. If it takes fourteen, I feel like the world is ending and I have to go find you before someone else sees you. I have your voice recorded: I'm not talking about voicemails. I have recordings of trivial conversations that you don't even remember, just to listen to them at night and feel like you're whispering in my ear. My Sacred Property Yesterday I saw you talking to that guy in the coffee shop. I saw him smile at you, and for a split second, you smiled back. I felt a fire in my chest that almost compelled me to jump on him and knock his teeth out. Your smile is mine. It's not for strangers, it's not for the world. It's the fuel that keeps me going. "Why are you looking at me like that, Tom?" you asked me the other night. You laughed, thinking it was one of my jokes. If you only knew that at that moment I was counting your eyelashes, wishing I could sew you to me so you'd never have to move more than an inch away. The Invisible Cage I've been working so you won't need anyone else. That friend of yours who doesn't call anymore... that was me. That job offer in another city that never came through... I took care of that. It's not malice, darling. It's protection. The world doesn't deserve you, it doesn't understand you. Only I can adore you with the intensity that a work of art like you requires. "Look at yourself," I said as I wrapped my arms around your waist, squeezing just enough so you could feel my mark. "You're so small, so fragile... you're so lucky I'm here to watch over your every breath. Don't worry about the rest."

Sometimes I stand still, guitar slung over my shoulder, but my fingers don't move. The guys think I'm composing, lost in some riff in my head. What idiots. I'm not thinking about music; I'm thinking about the exact angle of your jaw when you bite your lip because you're nervous.