Desecration

He’s a ghost in my veins, a hollow ache where my heart used to be. My body, a vessel no longer mine, but a haunted house filled with his memory. Every breath I take feels stolen, every step I make is a stumble, because he’s the ground beneath my feet that crumbled to dust.

My limbs are heavy, weighed down by the absence of his touch. My skin remembers the warmth of his hands, now just a phantom sensation that makes me shiver in a cold sweat. He’s a beautiful poison, a sickness I crave, a venom that courses through my blood, making every beat of my heart a painful reminder of what I’ve lost.

I am a broken clock, forever stuck on the moment he left. The hands of time are frozen, mocking me with a past I can’t escape. I am a painting with a single color, a dreary grey that bleeds into the canvas of my life. I am a song without a melody, a story without an ending, a shadow searching for a sun that has already set.

My body is not my own, it is his—a twisted shrine of flesh and bone. He is a parasite, a beautiful sickness that consumes me from the inside out. He's the rhythm in my lungs, the poison in my veins, the muscle of my beating heart. His absence leaves me hollowed out, a walking corpse in a world of the living.

Fear is the language of my love, a constant thrum of anxiety that buzzes beneath my skin. I’m a moth drawn to a flame, knowing it will burn me, yet unable to resist its dangerous allure. I am his to possess, his to break, and I fear the day he decides I am no longer worthy of his destructive love.

This isn't a gentle love; it's a storm that rages within me, a tempest of devotion and rage. I’m a loyal servant to a cruel god, a devotee who offers up her pain as a sacrament. I hate him for the power he holds over me, for the way he makes me ache and yearn for a love that is nothing but a slow, agonizing death. Yet, I bound to him by an invisible chain, a devotion born of a twisted obsession you can't escape.

My pain is a testament to his love, a constant reminder of the inferno that consumed me. I’m a shattered mirror, each shard reflecting a different facet of my misery. I’m a ruin, a monument to a love that was never meant to be. And I would tear down the world if it meant getting back just a single, agonizing moment in his presence. I am not a person, I’m a wound—a festering, unhealing scar left by a man who was both my life and my death.

The world is a downpour, and I'm a windowpane, streaked with the ghost of a love that used to be. Every drop is a memory, a silent tear for a heart that feels like a hollow echo in my chest. I am lost, a wanderer in a landscape of silence, where even the wind whispers his name with a cruel, mocking tenderness.

I find my only solace in the rain, a cold comfort that mimics the ache in my bones. It's a quiet despair, a shared misery between the sky and my soul. The world rushes on, a blur of color and noise, but I am still, held captive by the memory of a caress that was my only umbrella. He shielded me, not from the storm, but from the pain of being alone. And now, the storm rages, and I am bare, unprotected, and utterly, irrevocably drenched in my own sorrow.

But even in this deluge, there is a strange sort of peace. The rain washes over me, a baptism of grief that cleanses, not my pain, but my denial. It's a brutal, honest kind of truth—that he's gone, that I'm lost, that the world is a cold, hard place without him. And yet, there is a glimmer of solace in this acceptance. The rain is my companion, my confidant, the only one who truly understands the depth of my silent, tearless grief.

There’s a poison in my veins, but it’s not his anymore. It’s the venom of a thousand broken promises, each one a tiny dagger twisting in my gut. I thought his love was my air, my blood, my beating heart. But now I know it was just a lie, a beautiful, malicious lie whispered in the dark.

My mind is a shattered mirror, each shard reflecting a different version of the betrayal. I see myself, a fool, a puppet dancing on his strings. I see him, a monster wearing a lover’s face. And I see the truth, a gaping wound where my trust used to be.

The world is a stage, and I am the madwoman, howling at the moon for a love that never existed. I laugh at the irony, at the cruelty of it all. How can something that felt so real, so true, be nothing but a cruel deception? My sanity is a candle flickering in a hurricane, threatening to go out at any moment.

I am a song of sorrow, a melody of melancholy sung by a broken heart. The world has lost its color, bled out into a sea of gray. Every sunrise is a reminder of the darkness, every sunset a promise of a lonely night. My tears are a river of grief, a silent tribute to a love that died before it had a chance to truly live. And in this ocean of sadness, I am a ghost, a specter of the woman I used to be, haunted by the memory of a love that was nothing but a beautiful, tragic lie.

And yet, my body, a traitor, holds a language all its own. It speaks of a memory my mind tries to forget, a story told in the tremble of my hands, the involuntary shiver of my skin. Every nerve ending still remembers the ghost of his touch, a phantom ache that no amount of logic can soothe. It’s a silent conversation, a dialogue of longing between my flesh and the absence of his. I can try to tell myself he was a lie, a monster, but my body knows the truth: that he was the only one who ever truly spoke its language. The curve of my spine still waits for the pressure of his hand, my lips still part for a kiss that will never come. This intimate betrayal is the deepest wound of all. My body remembers the promises his lips never spoke, the comfort his presence offered. And it's that knowledge, this gut-level awareness, that keeps me suspended between the madness and the melancholy. My mind knows the betrayal, but my body only knows the longing, and in that conflict, I am forever lost.

There’s a hunger in my veins that goes beyond the skin, a thirst that can only be quenched by the taste of him. Not just his flesh, but the very essence of him—the blood that courses through his heart, the rhythm of his life. I want to become him, to consume his soul, to make his life a part of my own in the most intimate, ritualistic way imaginable.

This isn’t just desire; it's a ceremony of souls. I want to take a piece of him, a part of our shared history, and make it a part of me forever. I want to feel the ghost of his touch on my skin, the phantom ache of his absence in my bones. I want to become the keeper of his secrets, the guardian of his memories, the one who holds him, even when he’s gone.

This longing is a silent scream, a desperate cry for a connection so deep, it transcends life and death. I want to be the one who knows him, who understands him, who loves him in a way no one else can. I want to become the keeper of his soul because my veins scream for him. Not just for his touch, but for the sacred ache of his presence, the raw, visceral connection that ripped through my soul and left me forever changed. This isn't a gentle longing; it's a consuming fire, a desperate hunger that gnaws at my bones. I want to devour him, not with malice, but with a primal, animalistic love that knows no bounds.

I want to taste his blood on my tongue, not as a symbol of possession, but as a communion, a ritualistic merging of our very beings. I want to feel the thunder of his heart beating against my own, our rhythms becoming one. This is not about soft whispers and tender caresses; it's about the violent, beautiful collision of two souls that were always meant to be intertwined.

My body is a temple consecrated to your memory, its every curve and scar bespoken of a sadness I have surrendered to.

Your name is the only prayer I know.

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