He speaks of me like I’m something to be envied, coveted, and desired. I am flawless and exist in a state of perpetual perfection in his imagination. He knows the depth of my damage; yet never tells of my failings.

He speaks to me with reverence; eternal respect, unending support. As if his eyes see instead of me, a diety. As if I am sacred, holy, divine. He knows the measure of my sins; yet never curses me, only worships me.

He holds me like something precious and frail. In his hands I am less a chipped ceramic tea cup and more a priceless porcelain doll. Still, when the lights go red he strives to shatter me.

He loves me leisurely, taking our time together slowly, as if we have the forever we’ve vowed to each other. And he fucks me like each time is our last…

His soul is peace and tranquility; I am rage and chaos embodied. Our contrast is boundless; and binds us.

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