#mod gold
Dreams of him – that distorted version of him – brushing against your skin take over your mind. The thick grime covering his hands, the feeling of it too foreign for you to ever forget, stands out against the fuzzy recollections of him your memory can bring to the surface.
God, those dreams were common. Not nightmares, no. Something else. Something drowned in static and haunting, that leaves you waking in a cold sweat, aching for those hands against your skin again, aching for the promises left unkept by that twisted version of him - your tears calling out for him in the night just as much as your screams do.
The clock’s slow and careful overhead. My mind shuts off. Searching for exit will prove fruitless. Your eyes are all I see. Quite frankly, they are all Iwantto see. You control me. You always will.
I can’t think past this madness swarming in my head any longer. I’ll give in. Anything to be put out of the misery of consciousness.
I’d prefer being broken.
It was so easy to pretend he was you. He had your eyes, your hands, your charismatic smile…
His lips felt just like yours. I could never love him, but I’ll always love you - and that was enough.
It was enough until his hands that felt so much like yours began to hurt me, until his voice that sounded as lovely as yours did started berating me…
It was like you were hurting me.
Would you hurt me like him, my love?
The CDs music fills the air as you take him apart. Hands on his neck, lips wandering his body, drugs and liquor fogging your heads as you fumble in the dark of the back of the van. Moans fill the silence the pauses in his songs leave behind. Even now, he sounds as beautiful as he does when he performs.
This is everything you never wanted to do with your life.
Why does it feel so good to be with him?
He’s your reflection - if you were better looking. Bright hope filled eyes, untainted despite his painful past, and a winner’s smile. Your twin brother. The better twin.
Even his lips are better than yours, soft and sweet as they slide against your own. You wish that he wanted this as horribly as you do. You can wait, though.
You’d wait forever for him.
His hands linger on your hips. Your breaths are whispers in the dark of the night; the rain like tears on your skin; blood tainting the purity of the pavement under your feet as he leads the dance of your demise. You don’t know his plan for you yet. You don’t need to. You’ll let him lead you in this eternal dance until he inevitably swallows your life whole.
You love him, after all.
Your palms are bloody. He would be proud. Your handiwork splays across your skin, carvings in His name, the eyes on your skin allowing Him to see you as often as He wants. If your Muse can’t be here physically, you’ll be His window. You’ll let Him see.
