lee5sa
- Reads 660
- Votes 15
- Parts 12
He doesn't knock. He never does.
He slips in like smoke under the door, through the cracks in my resolve, into the hollow spaces I pretend don't exist. I could swear I locked everything-my mind, my body, my will-but he finds a way, every time.
Asmodeus.
He isn't always a man. Sometimes he's a breath of warm air in the pit of my loneliness, a pulse in my wrist I can't control, a whisper in my ear when the world is too quiet. But when he chooses flesh-oh, he wears it well.
He smells like everything I crave: danger, comfort, heat. His voice curls around my ribs and squeezes until I forget how to breathe without him.
"I missed you," he says, though he never really leaves. "Did you miss me too?"
I hate him.
I love him.
The first time we touched, I thought I had found salvation. His kiss was fire and stillness at once-like falling and flying all together. I remember thinking, this is it-this is what it means to feel alive. But it was never life he gave me. It was a borrowed high. A lie wrapped in pleasure.
He takes, and takes, and takes.
And still, I beg for more.
Every time I try to leave, he waits. Patient. Sweet. Like he knows I'll come crawling back-bloody knees, hollow eyes, empty promises. And when I do, he smiles like he's proud of me. Like I've finally come home.
They call him many things-addiction, craving, sickness, sin.
But I know his name.
Asmodeus.
My lover.
My curse.
My god.