freedom hangs like heaven; etro

[sleaze]

I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife She might be filled with sicknesses, strange viruses that make her fall amongst and for the murderers and ne’er-do-wells of the world, but to him, she is a cure. To him, she is silence, somewhere in between mortal and goddess. (He would worship her, if she asked. His knees are bare form when he once prayed nonstop, his lips know the words, his body knows prostration.) And what is he, amongst her collection of sinners? For he does not revel in the destruction he trails behind him, instead it horrifies him. He had not meant to hurt the woman. He had only wanted to fly. She touches him again and it occurs to him she may have touched him more than anyone else (except his father, of course) in their brief meetings. It is an uneasy thought and he doesn’t quite know why, he only knows that there are parts of her bay skin that long to be explored were he not so cowardly. Are you alright, she asks, and he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know what he is with these memories and new powers surging inside of him. “I just--” he begins, unsure how to finish, “I don’t want to hurt anyone again.” He touches her, a moment of bravery. His mind quiets further at the contact. “I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want it,” his voice is tight, “not when I can’t control it.” sleaze cancer x garbage