But She Lied
She said she could see me; the real me that was hidden beneath all the angles and straight lines. She was the first person to ever say so, and I cherished those words as they fell from her scarlet lips like precious rubies. They gave me strength and hope, and stored in my heart – in my (non-existent) breast.
But she lied.
Deep down, I knew she was lying. I didn't have to search the depths of her crimson eyes to know the truth, but I desperately wanted to believe she saw the woman I was always meant to be. I believed her lies and even wrapped about me like the beautiful red coat she always wore. I wanted to believe. Even in those moments we were intimate, allowing our bodies to fuse and move as one, she would whisper breathlessly how we didn't need a man to feel pleasure.
But she lied.
She wanted me to love her like a man, and my body seemed all to ready to comply. I felt truly separated in those moments of passion. The act itself was euphoric, but afterwards I knew that I had betrayed myself. She assured me that the opposite was true and how we were meant to be together. She claimed that we would have wound up tangled in her blood red sheets regardless of my physicality.
But she lied.
I only smiled as I followed down the path she painted with those glorious shades of red, and I even added my own brushstrokes. We were deadly and beautiful, and we strode down the made road hand and hand. At the same time I knew that it all had to end at some point. She was living on borrowed time, but she was only partially aware of this. She knew that I had crossed her name off of the to-die list, but she had believed me when I said I would always protect her.
But I can lie as well.