He spoke of murder like poetry,
Of hands on hearts,
Deep inside of forbidden secrets.
He whispered words like “torture”,
As if they were the sweetest things imaginable.
A thousand horrors roiling in my mind,
An insufferable urge to destroy,
Coupled with an incomparable joy
In one other.
His words were red and lush,
Covering things previously unknown
At once shadowed and enlightened;
He spoke of death like religion,
Like the last great adventure;
As some barely-concieved bit of brilliance.
He spoke of death as if he’d tasted it,
Somehow feeling my experiences through our bond,
Knowing more than me about things I’ve come so close to,
Dipped just deep enough into.
He spoke of beautiful,
Of our mutual desires,
And combined promises.
By Nick Ransom