You dare threaten us with the gallows? With the lash and the pyre? Don’t make me laugh. We aren’t afraid of any punishment or death you could meter out. Justice and fairness are a load of bullshit anyway; faith and hope are useless comforts. We expect nothing less. It’s truth that will protect us in the end. Even suffocating on our own blood, we’ll still know we were right. No amount of suffering can take that away. Death is such a paltry sacrifice compared to the certainty of our conscience and the strength of our conviction. So go ahead, do your worst. We’re not afraid. Physical pain is only temporary. What binds us together cannot be severed by blade nor charred by flame. It will endure long after we are gone.

“I would throw it all away for you,” he swears, casting his hand out to encompass not this dingy motel room but all the unseen world passing us by beyond its walls: home and family, wealth and security, decadence and influence anyone would envy. Yet even as he gestures the ring glitters on his finger, bright and meaningless as his words. In that other world he may wield power but here he is as helpless as a slave, and this single golden band is a painfully poetic symbol of the futility of our situation. His offer is sweet, a wonderful dream even I can’t deny I long for, but impossible. We can never be those men. We can never share that life. I wish he would not cling to this foolish hope so fervently; it will only make our eventual separation all the more heartbreaking. Aren’t we in enough pain already?

“If you just asked, I would give everything up,” he professes, but I never will. I refuse to be the catalyst for his self-destruction. Why can’t he see that we will never have the life together he imagines? He would destroy himself for me and gain nothing but grief and ostracism. This is no fairy tale; he is no prince who can cast off his crown and marry whatever muddy blooded commoner he likes. There’s a ring on his finger and a woman who waits for his return. He has a family. He has a career. He has responsibilities and burdens and a path he must walk whether he chose it or not. I won’t be the reason he abandons that life for one of humiliation and struggle. We were never meant to share anything but these brief, stolen moments. In another world, maybe, or another story, but not this one.

Angel of disease, let me sicken with you. Infect me with your poison blood and we’ll share fever, fear, and fate. One taste is all it would take, darling. Contaminate me and we can be the same. It’ll be just you and me against the darkness. Don’t you want that?

Angel of demise, let me perish with you. Our hearts will labor in unison as we draw our final breaths. In and out, beloved, one last time. Just like that. We’ll be free of the pain, free of the heartache. Together in death as in life. Don’t you want that?

Angel of decay, let me rot with you. My body has no worth if you’ll never touch it again, never bless me with your lips or fingers. So let our flesh putrefy and melt from our bones. We’ll become one in the earth; united, inseparable, eternal. Don’t you want that?

no words tonight. tonight raw wounds. tonight choking lungs and burning eyes. tonight jealousy like acid bile, a film of blood on lips bitten to silence. jealousy of those free to touch, to give and take, who need not fear condemnation or persecution. jealousy of the blessed, those with time and possibility to love, heal, grow. no such happy ending for these two. no safety or solace, this embrace a paltry comfort too easily taken away. sick with envy. sick with misery. sick with the inevitability of tragedy played a thousand times and again, again, again. not fair. throats choke with the words unspoken, useless tonight. tonight nothing but jealousy and anger and heartache. tonight nothing but inadequacy and fear. tonight nothing but grief.

So we’re deviants, huh? Perverts? Freaks? Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint, so let’s give them a show they’ll remember. Kiss me bloody, baby; bruise me black and blue. Run me ragged, rake me raw. If they want monsters then we’ll be their fucking monsters. They may sneer and spit on us, but what does a little more dirt matter? It feels so good to be so bad. Tear me open, darling, break me down. Let’s show them what it’s like to embrace the beast.