like the moon, we borrow our light; chantale

[chantale]

my corrupt nature is empty of grace; bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. She walks like sin, and it’s fair enough, for it was an integral part of my corpse masterpiece. Bred from it – mortally, she is of a dark god and his own granddaughter. Made of it – her becoming was one of blood and madness, watching her own mother lurch from the cliff’s edge. It lives in her, embodied now in the slick swell of her hips (hips that have known her own father, known kings, known men and women alike). And she leaves it smeared across them, marks them as she drags her lips across such keen flesh. Yes, sin hangs between them even as their interactions remain innocent (what is the sink of teeth into flesh, but a greeting?). “Yes,” she affirms, because the shadow is darling, and warm in a way my corpse has missed, ached for. She is warm and she promises things, promises heat and yielding flesh, and a darkness that she has not quite named. The shadow mangles her name but Chantale has always liked things broken, and she finds the ruined syllables charming as they dangle from the ink-dark lips of the mare. “Chantale likes you, too,” she says, touching her still, noticing the divots of her, the power lying dormant in the coiled musculature. “What’s your name, pet?” chantale how original a sin.