He had doll hands. Perfect and delicate and pale and beautiful... but strong, too. Holding immense power. He had perfectly sculpted, perfectly formed, elegant, beautiful hands. That's why I had to break them all to pieces.
Words are weapons. I learned that long ago. Words can empower or they can completely destroy--and a handful of well-placed words can shift the whole tide of All That Is. ...Or All That Isn't.
He had soul. Argue if you must--but the fucker had heart, too. He was perfect. He was fucking perfect... and I could never touch that. Never be that. To touch would have been to soil; to lay my filthy, massive, disgusting hands on butterfly wings.
A handful of words. Can change everything.
"I don't love you."
 Sections Elsewhere |