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@59apothecary

manic charisma, psychologically estranged, possessive, definitionally deranged, barren ashtray heart, repressed, depressed, just fucking mean, starving, corrupt, horny, asshole. 

don’t we all wish we could approach our lovers with honesty and fearlessness. not cower in their feelings, horrified to desire someone that is close enough to touch their heart.

manipulative, too angry, desolate, ugly distortion, smashed mirrors, liar, 

he won’t tell himself the truth. none of the truth, just dissociation. love is not pain, love is not betrayal, love is not lust, love is not torture, and so he will present it to her, 

because,

he doesn’t love her. 

greedy, low-life, scummy, he lives in the corners where rats hide to he is not to be loved. his soul wretched. his mind disgusting, manipulated and folded in an unrecognisable form, rich with rubble from a tragic disaster. his heart set on fire. there is nothing to love about himself. to villainize oneself is to let yourself hate the crummy scraps of sanity and will left in you by the devil. parasites like him devour even the most horrific spiders and snakes in this world. he isn’t made to love and that’s alright with him.

he smiles at the relishing thought of a hotel room revelry he danced in for some nights. girl after girl. fingers dug into thighs, backs of ears, waistlines, a slight noise. all this giving, so much feasting, mind run on an infinite loop of incessant selfish greed and tongues. his own brand of wrath. 

what a rendezvous, 

there are whispers of his false affections with his eyes shut in pleasures and a girl after girl. an endless hunger for damage, a moan to the phone, “yes,” a moan, “sweetheart?” heavy breathing. she sounds teary eyed, shaky, suffocated, “when are you coming back?” so awfully, heart wrenchingly sweet. she makes him fucking nauseous.

he doesn’t love her. 

grinning, sick fuck, his hits hip a little harder, skin slapping. “soon” huff, “tomorrow may-” huff, “-be.” a moan.

-- call cut. 

for what reason was that again? were he not happy with the sweetest heart in the land? 

he supposes he shouldn’t be happy, after all, he doesn’t love her. 

not that he was ever capable of loving anyone or thing. not that he wants to be happy in the first place. 

but her flavour is irresistible and he must at least have a taste. because what villains do best is to tall the good from the world and leave it painted black. 

because his mind, rotten as it may be, still yearns for the sweet kiss of purity, beauty and passion. and the parasitic rot is aggressively attacking this pocket of humanity left in this breed of man. 

you would ask, what business does such an ugly, monstrous beast of a man can manage to step foot into the light of the good without being burnt alive? well, like all effective predators in the animal kingdom, this creature evolved too. 

his face, a stretch of skin that wrinkles just right when he pulls his lips to smile. his eyes do glimmer, in projections of his love for despising himself. and his words, suave saccharine lines of poetic lies. no wonder why one could fall for this facade

“hello sweetheart.” he says, as the door opens, a vile grin on his face, body overcome with ruthless assertion. 

she looks like exactly how he sees her in his dreams every night. sweet with her heart so warm in his hands. 

stay malicious.  

voice in a cold timbre. she doesn’t deserve this, but he also doesn’t deserve anything good.

so no one else should. 

vultures propped up on his ribcage, eating at the remnants of his fleshy heart. 

“i missed you, my love.” 

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