a monster is always a monster, even when he loves you

When the mouth of the beast is pressed against your neck you will not hear him growl.
You will hear him whimper.
He will whisper a song into your skin.

You’ll think he has swallowed his teeth and grown soft lips.
You’ll think the blood he leaves on the edge of your chin is smudged lipstick.
He’ll tell you that a killer can be kind; he’ll teach you to touch the edge of a knife and hold it against your chest like a keepsake.
He’ll tell you love is a loaded gun and there is always a victim.
You are always the victim.
You should know better than to love something that teaches you how to die.

He’ll dig graves into your skin and watch you fall into them.
He’ll have you slipping into your own corpse and then he’ll tell you he hates watching dead things rot.
He will be gone by the time the police arrive and when they ask you what happened, you will tell them you have caved into yourself trying to love a monster.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write
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