Penance


What is he? He is nothing more than a feeling under my nails, a surface to bruise, a writhing mass beneath my fingertips. Too long he's been revered and respected. And for what?

Well, no longer; He's not my fucking saviour. But, something tells me I'm his.

He acts and I react. It's all about signals; Knowing when to start, telling him when it stops. It's all about blurring lines until his flesh understands a bruise feels much the same as a kiss, until insults fade to low, choked sounds in the back of his throat.

It's all about recognition. Slowly, he's begun to understand that I am Justice, blind and righteous. Slowly, he's learnt to accept that I must tear him to pieces if he ever wants to be repaired.



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