It begins with blood. Yours, not his. He watches as you clean it from your face, dripping teal after an unsuccesful strife against Dave. You feel the weight of his eyes on the back of your neck, smell him move up close behind you. He pauses; inhales. You hear him, feel him, breathe in your scent deep. His tongue meets with your neck and slicks a path up to your earlobe. His hands come up to your chin. He turns your face. He licks your wounds.
You are all a quiver with burning rage. He leaves you trembling against the injustice.
It becomes something over the next weeks. Something rotten and vile. You hate him. He is an incomprehensible, evil, disgusting piece of trash. And he smells oh so delectable with those scars across his face.
Black. This is what you wax for him. You take all your past pity for him, your sweet indulgence of his mindlessness, and with his soberself now apparent you paint it all black.
He tastes like sin and hate and justice when you lick the lines of his mouth.
