9
Sometimes I can't decide if your insides are golden and you're flesh has blackened, or your soul conceals it's black burns under a layer of golden flesh. Either way, the char is always the sweetest. The crown of the meal. The rich, flavoursome delicacy. The bit you save for last. There's something black in you, that fills my airways with smoke and heat. It whisps around my insides and pulls me in, tightening it's grip around every vessel of blood. It freezes my limbs and I am struck by paralysis. My only capability is to succumb to you. To let your soul carry mines in a frevelent waltz as your capitulated victim. I would have your flesh stapled to mine if it meant you would always be gripped on my soul. It would stripe my skin sticky red and I'd wear it proudly. I love that part of you. The layers of black that often consume you. The parts you don't understand that tamper frustration. Know that I love the parts you are often afraid of. Let me grab hold of them firmly. Let me whisper sweet lullabies. Let me stroke your soul.