#@centifox

[traumaodyssey]

••💿💿••

“I saw an angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” —Michelangelo

There are times I feel like I’m the angel stuck in a block of stone.

But not the pretty, idealistic angels everyone imagines. No.

The eldritch horrors. With 200 eyes and seven heads and six arms. Cosmic terror on a small scale that was trapped in that stone and shouldn’t ever be freed.

But you came along. You touched the surface of that dark, cold prison. Light poured through the cracking structure until it reached my eyes.

Until I felt the warmth on my skin.

Is this what love is?

I felt whole as you carved away layers of stone. A broken creature being pieced together by God Himself.

I’ve never been a religious man.

But you bring me to my knees.

[traumaodyssey]

•• 💿💿 ••

Jokes aside… “rizz” aside…

You offered to watch my back when I was most vulnerable.

You admitted that I am one of the few you’ve allowed yourself to attach to.

You said you’d write me an entire epic poem.

I’m not so sure my heart could handle that when one sentence from you had my heart racing and my mind going blank.

But fuck I think I want to.

I want to be worthy of you. Of the attention you’ve given me. To fall at your feet only for you to lift me back up and assure me I’ve done nothing wrong.

And yet I want to be taken apart by you, piece by aching piece, and put back together into something more complete.

I’ve never felt this way before.

I haven’t had that rush of emotion that speaking to you brings in so long.

I don’t know if I’m worthy but I want to be. I think with you I could believe that I am. I think in your arms the nightmares could fade. I think with you, I’m safe.

How can a concept feel so scary and so freeing at the same time?

[traumaodyssey]

••💿💿••

Tw: talk of scars, ab*se, tort*re, recovery.

I used to be proud of my scars. There was a time when they were all gained from my experiences. From stupid choices or sets and stunts.

I can’t. Be proud of them anymore.

Now it is a reminder. My entire body—little more than a reminder of a dark forest.

Of dark eyes leering down while he cut me apart.

Of feeling my skin burn and twist as he grew angrier with each cry I didn’t let out.

I tried for so long to keep from screaming. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing the agony I was in.

Every bone he broke, every tendon he snapped, every muscle he shredded.

And the brand he left on the back of my neck that’s never healed fully.

It was my own fucking fault. I should have flash stepped. I should have called out when I tripped. Something, anything when cold hands yanked me deeper into the darkness.

When my arms started to burn from struggling against thin metal wire. Thick enough to keep from breaking. Sharp enough to slice into skin the more you struggle.

When I tasted blood in my mouth from a ripped out tooth.

Nothing scares me the way he does. The way he laughed and hummed in absolute fucking delight as he broke me apart. Nothing shatters me the way looking at my scars do.

I never want to go back there. I don’t think I’d survive.

How can I still be precious to you when I look like this?