He will never love you, you know that version of him would be destroyed, temptation changes men like water can make you clean or, at least, wash the dirt off.
You always do this, you always do this. It’s not real, nothing is real. This is why you hoard the light, the good men. But none of them are good after you, not one.
I don’t know what to do with you – can’t you let this one go? Don’t take the bait, don’t lay traps of your own. Why is it like this? There’s no reason to read ahead – stop.
STOP: Turning men into monsters, bloodying your fingernails shuffling hexes.
Men are monsters, men are mirrors.
The best, the worst – the reflections never match in this game of hunting and stealing, of turning everything inside out onto the floor, up to the sky.
There’s this man and he is pure, his scars sitting prettily over his damage. He doesn’t love me but his damage reaches for me with graceful fingers, in my dreams and right before sleep.
But they’re monsters.
I want their souls.
I’m just a witch, a whore, my hand pulling them into early graves. I can’t stop.
It is not my heart. My heart is quiet. My heart thinks nothing. It is my soul, her teeth, her lack of control.
What is it that God forgot to give me to turn this thing off?