Moonshine

Fit Together in a Pattern with No Spaces in Between

Maybe she doesn't want peace. She doesn't crave quiet—the kind that dulls you to the bone, that numbs the senses. No, she wants him. His teeth grazing her skin, his scruff scraping against her in a way that drives her insane. She's violently quiet, like a storm about to break, always on edge, never quite settled within herself.

What would have happened if they had kept this charade alive? They both knew it was fleeting, never built to last. He travels the world, and she's too fucking ambitious to let him knock her off course. And him? He's meant for escape.

She laughs at the absurdity, knowing the distance might as well take her head clean off. God, how she misses the chaos in her mind, the madness that kept her alive. Now, she's nothing more than a fucking hopeless romantic, clinging to the ridiculous dream of something sweet, something beautiful.

"Fuck."

She'll cough blood, take the poison, swallow it down like it's a casual drink—like it's just another fix to numb the ache. But this, this whole thing? It's madness. Delicious, fucking madness.

Their humor had always been twisted—dark, sultry, addicting. Their dirty jokes, the seductive whispers that made her pulse race. He knew her in ways no one else ever dared. He knew her work, the art she held sacred. And he wanted to be part of that world. She let him in. She let him ruin every other man for her.

"Fuck."

Maybe she doesn't want company—the kind she keeps, the kind she destroys. Or maybe she craves it, aches for it, like a drug. No—him. He's the drug. Maybe she's happy it ended, happy the illusion shattered before it could swallow her whole. But no. She wants him. She fucking wants him. Or maybe she never knew what she wanted at all, because what does she know about desire when she barely understands herself?

And now? Now she's laughing and crying all at once, overwhelmed by it all. It's too much. It's all too much. Pure, unfiltered madness.

Maybe she'll run from the fire, from the heat, from the pain. But she knows damn well she won't. She'll run straight into it, into him, craving the burn. She'll crash, she'll burn—and she'll fucking revel in the ashes, in the destruction.

The gods must be laughing at her now, watching her unravel, broken, wanting, and mad. How hilarious it must be for them, seeing her like this—a beautiful, twisted mess of desire and ruin.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."