he was the crown i thought i’d won.
he’d pull my lips into a searing kiss with
his hands on her shirt. my eyes were shut
under his spells and promises of power
- of a consummate love fit for a queen.
he is notorious for kissing my neck
and whispers ‘you’re the only one love.’
(he was on tinder thirty minutes before.)
he hisses my name - hera - like a prayer,
like i’m his salvation saving him from suffering -
what suffering? he was but a privileged man
and i was a goddess who sensed guilt
emanating from him: a pungent scent.
blessèd be to him, i suppose:
despite his wandering heart and wanton soul
my love for him is but a thousand suns."
— heart masochist // a.w. (via mclfoygranger)
FIREHEART
THERE'S ALWAYS SOMETHING STYLISH IN BEING UTTERLY WICKED
YOU WERE COLD, AS THE BLOOD THROUGH YOUR BONES
SO GIVE ME HOPE IN THE DARKNESS
FOR ALL MY SWEAT, MY BLOOD RUNS WEAK
MY HEART IS GOLD AND MY HANDS ARE COLD
THROW ME TO THE WOLVES AND I WILL RETURN LEADING THE PACK
DRIPPING LIKE A SATURATED SUNRISE.

