Black Magic
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Tagsromance
A spell only talks a few lines; a few words.
A little of this and that.
But the spell you casted on my heart can't be reversed. It's like a drum beat that in never ends in New Orleans. It has tempo, drive, ambition. It's more than music. The beat in my heart doesn't know the rhythm.
I slowly get into sync with it. Trying to let the melody flow through my bloodstream. I didn't know I could remember. It's Black Magic. In my head ; in my heart. And I cannot make your spell.
We dance to the beat of our hearts. So out of sync but finding the flow in everything. Despite my clumsiness and your unbalance. Both hate being talked at , touched; cared for. But finding it is different within one another.
It's Black magic.
Unsure of what may come, easing into this. Being careful not to step on any armed bombs. Both treading so carefully it scares them both. Not sure of who to protect first. You or Them. It's a constant battle. It's a battle that you are willing to fight for.
Black magic has a way of turning something good into something bad. But what if it's already bad. What if we turned chaos into beauty? Make a beautiful day; memory; life.
With Black Magic you never know what you're getting into until you pay the price.
Im willingly paying that toll. Black Magic doesn't scare me.
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She first met him in a therapy group for trauma survivors. He didn't speak much, but his eyes lingered too long, as though he could peel back her skin and read every wound carved into her bones. She told herself it was wrong, that she should avoid him, but the silence between them became magnetic. When they finally spoke, it wasn't gentle. It was raw. He told her he saw the same madness in her that lived inside him, the same hunger to feel something sharp, something real. Their first kiss tasted like blood-his lip split when she bit too hard, and instead of stopping, he pulled her closer. Soon, their nights together blurred between sex and confession. They carved secrets into each other's skin, whispered things no one else could ever hear. But his love was never safe-it was possessive, suffocating, like drowning in warm water. He wanted to break her just to put her back together. She wanted to burn in him until nothing of herself remained. The deeper they sank, the less they could tell the difference between passion and violence, between devotion and destruction. She began seeing him in places he couldn't possibly be-in mirrors, in her dreams, in the shadows of her room. He said he was inside her now, that their bond was irreversible. When her therapist asked about the bruises on her neck, she smiled and said nothing. Because the truth was this: she didn't want to be saved. She wanted to be consumed. And so she let him.
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