she wears blood well. as well as any of those high class bitches you knew from your law days. no, better. better by far. the ones drenched in prada with heels and a sense of self worth equal only to the amount of men they could get to feed their addictions. your lamb isn't like them. she's a beast of her own making, of her own design. PERFECTLY IMPERFECT AND UNDENIABLY BROKEN. you've seen god's light through the cracks. you smile, a genuine splintered thing, before pressing a deceivingly tender kiss to her temple and draping your coat over her slender shoulders. it suits her better than blood, you find. finger crooked beneath her chin, you lift her head. ' you've done well. '
Does God make mistakes? No, everything is with omnipotent justification: even the Genesis flood and the rapture have had their reasoning, to destroy and start anew, and so when he crafted you with every bit of indecency in your palms it was carefully devised with a greater purpose in mind. Through trial and tribulations, you seek to shift the world into that greater purpose. You’re looking into the eyes of that greater purpose. The greater purpose presses its lips against your skin, puts its own coat around you. It’s a twisted thing to be used to the brimstone. It’s another to welcome it with open arms. Watch as the snake swallows its own tail. And so lips permit a breath of relief. You don’t speak; there’s nothing you can say.








