Too late. My hands are already around your neck. I can feel your breath catch under my fingers, your heartbeat against my palms.
For you, my hand is steady and my literal and metaphorical knives are sharp.
For you, I will cut quickly, so that the nerve endings remain intact. I want you to feel what is under your skin, under the protective lining of your beliefs.
You are not sublimated or subsumed. You are measured, manipulated, and made.
You are a sin to indulge in, a moment to be experienced, an implement of intent. You are a skill underused, but often practiced. You are my craft in form, my faith derived, my art form, my belief, my self.
You are my mastery.