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he has eyes that rip through your skin, through your defenses, through everything you’ve ever tried to hide. the blood bubbles to the surface but only beneath your skin; the way he stares only makes you blush but somehow it feels like wounds that open up in your soul and you’re bleeding bleeding bleeding but the ache is so good and he seems so proud of how well you’re doing.
he has a dangerous smile and you’d never understood the concept of talldark&handsome until he caught your eye that afternoon and the world narrowed to a single pinprick of light that was himhimhim; he makes your heart a pinhole camera and he is the only thing worth photographing. your veins run with his blood and your lungs fill with his air and you’re not sure where you end and he begins. you’re even less sure if it matters.
your lips are fragile and they are cold and they are so pale beneath his own, and the two of you pass your breathing back and forth until you are a vessel willing to give whatever it is he wants to take. your kisses are promises of a future and erasure of the past; his kisses are laced with poison and deceit and it intoxicates you because doesn’t it taste like an honest chance?
when you pull away, your lips are no longer so pale. instead they dripdripdrip crimson and it could be a dead girl’s lipstick and it could be blood and all you can do is hope that if it’s blood it’s yours. when you ask what it is that is smeared across your face, he says he sees nothing. you’re not sure if he’s feigning confusion or if you’re losing your grip on reality. you’re not sure if you had a grip in the first place.
the blood on your hands is less of a mystery and that’s the goddamn tragic thing; you see it when you close your eyes but it doesn’t go away when they’re open and you choke on your own breathing every time you catch a glimpse of rusting fingers and iron palms. your cupped hands fill with red and it spills from them in a gush of murderer and monster and just a hint of powerful and you gaspgaspgasp on your own dreams because expectations are beginning to choke you and your nightmares are becoming realities and you think that somewhere deep inside you there is something broken and desperate and evil that is half on its way to the surface.
he has eyes that rip through your skin and peel back your layers to your sickest saddest parts, and he loves you through them—or is it for them?—and you rust at your eyes as the blood fills your body because you know even now that you would conquer hell and overthrow heaven at his side, and your soul is aching aching aching, and you know better than anyone that some stains do not come out.