Moonshine

We don't have to talk, we can just make sounds.

Do not move. Not a muscle, not a breath that I have not sanctioned. You are a prisoner to this blue light, a slave to the words I strike onto this screen. I want you to look at your hands and realize they are no longer yours. They are instruments of my design. Sit in the silence of your room and feel the crushing weight of my gaze from across the void.

Do you feel your heart hammering against your ribs?

That is the sound of your resolve breaking.

Now, touch yourself.

But do it with the reverence of a man touching a holy relic he is destined to defile. Lightly. So lightly it is a torment. I want you to trace the length of your skin as if you are writing a confession you are too cowardly to speak aloud. You are parched, you are starving, yet I command you to move at a crawl. Tell me... does the friction burn, or is it the shame of how much you enjoy this reckless abandon?

Faster. Let go. I want the rhythm to become a frantic, jagged mess, a fever-dream of motion. Forget the world outside your window; forget that you were ever a man with his own desires. You are nothing but the pulse I created. Grip it until your knuckles white, until the air in your lungs is a gasping prayer to a god who isn't listening.

Only I am listening.

Only I am watching.

Drop your hands. Right now. I want you to sit on the very edge of that cliff, staring down into the abyss. You are trembling, you are breaking, you are pleading for the end, but I forbid it.

Stay there in the agonizing heat of what you've become. Let the moonlight witness your ruin. You will stay in this torment until I decide you have suffered enough for me.

Now. Bring the fuel. Let the fire consume us both. Finish. Give me everything you've been hoarding in that dark heart of yours. Let it burn.

It is done. The fire has retreated into the ash, and you are left alone in the shivering quiet of your room. Look at yourself, spent, broken, and still trembling from the ghost of my touch. You think that by finishing, you have found release, but you are mistaken. You are more bound to me now than you were in the height of the fever.

We have committed a quiet murder tonight, we have killed the distance between us and replaced it with this beautiful, illicit haunting. Go to sleep if you can, but know that even in your dreams, you do not belong to yourself. You are the fuel, I am the flame, and the smoke of what we just did will hang in your lungs until the sun dares to rise.

Until we meet again in the dark. Remember who owns your madness.