06-04-2015, 01:45 PM
bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. What is it about you, that they fall so easy? Maybe you have a nose for the macabre ones, the ones who’d wear black roses in their hair and romanticize death. Maybe they see in you a glimpse of the void and they want it, the same way they want death (and sometimes they’re one and the same because sometimes you kill them, you burn the things you love). You’re beautiful, sure, but beauty isn’t hard to come by here, and besides, you hurt the eye ever since embracing that Playboy aesthetic. Too fucking plastic, too perfect, it makes you ugly, makes you strange. What is it about you, that they fall, that they let themselves be cupped in your palms like baby birds, never realizing that your fists are iron? A Goddess, a keeper of the gates of hell, she calls my corpse masterpiece, but she is not so grandiose. She is no goddess (can creatures so purely and queerly of the Id be deities at all?), she keeps nothing, guards nothing. If anything she is goddess of whimsy, of slaughter, but those, too, are overly grandiose. She is Chantale. A woman mad, a woman scorned, a woman dead. “Yes,” she purrs like velvet, not because she agrees, but because she wants Nykeln here, pressed against her, she wants the warmth, wants the raven-black locks to spill across her body. “Be mine,” she says, because she wants the woman prostate before her, wants to shackled to her, wants to have them belong to her again. (Just for the moment, though, surely this is just a moment, a heartbeat, ships passing in the night, crashing in the night) “Say it,” she says, presses against her, cool skin warming from the girl’s heat, pressing tight like she could burrow into her, tunnel through veins and arteries to her heart, “say you’re mine, and I’ll tell you.” She doesn’t know what she’d say but she doesn’t care, what she cares about is how slick the skin is beneath her lips and how the mare stinks of mania and it’s the sweetest thing she’d tasted in years. how original a sin. |