46. From her point of view.
She trembles with fear in my embrace, the one that's laced with malicious intent as I squeeze harder and harder with every passing second. I am her comfort and tormentor both, and all she has left in this lonely world. She is mine, as I am hers alone. When she cries, I catch her tears in my palms and lick my fingers clean. The taste of her misery gives me life, her despair drowns me in ecstasy. I cannot help but smile as I dig my nails into her shoulders, pushing her deeper and deeper into the blackness that birthed me. The tarry sludge that dripped from the crevices of her trauma and misfortune, her heartache and insecurity. Fuelled by cruel words and strange looks that keep the tap running. Thoughts overflow as I whisper them in her ear, my voice alone over a thousand critical eyes. And oh, does it make me quiver with excitement. I can't help but laugh from the pure joy it brings as her head goes under, muffling the voices of logic, the voices of light, the voices of anyone who could possibly pull her out.
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efflorescence
Poésie- where my withering thoughts bloom [TW] don't judge me most of these are very old
