delicate instruments

If I write this on your skin, perhaps the words will be a slow poison, a sublime promise exhibited in the symptoms of our illness.

I believe in my ability to possess someone in moments. To make them understand that when they are in front of me, they are everything. The world becomes a place of tools, a vibrant unreal painting that is useful only in the implements it provides in sharp knives, leather restraints, and delicate instruments of pleasure and pain.

Sadism has its place; but I prefer that thin line between the two, where it becomes hard to tell pleasure from pain. I use sadistic measures to get what I want, which is a consummation, a devouring.

I want to deconstruct you; find the pattern of your mewls when you're caught between a rock and my hard place. I want to follow the curvature of your heart, worn on your sleeve, but kept under your wings.

I want to taste the blood on your skin.