The first time she saw him, her pupils dilated. As if she was opening up a path to him, inviting him inside her soul. He slipped into her mind, poured, drip dropped through those black, wide holes. Molten gold gushing through the eye of the needle.
And when he looked at her, she felt the birds in her throat swell and caw cut and twitch and batter against her throat. She felt as though they might finally cut there way free, and he would see all the blood and words she so wanted to spill for him.
When he looked at her, the needle-girl, all runny ink and paper bones - he saw her for who she really was. He saw, and he treated. He said nothing but the truth.
And the truth is always harsh.
He was all harsh lines and strict curves. His chest was hard. His lips were not soft. His eyes were as cold as the pen he used to black out her name. She often imagined that pen and the needle of it, of it driving into her skin, into her eye. She imagined him writing her out of existence. And felt at peace.
He would melt. He would melt into her eyes. He would gush, hot gold, brilliant and spurting - fill up her rotten, half broken soul. She would barely be able to hold him up, her wirey, snapped heart not strong enough to hold him. He would burn her up, like angels do if you look at them. His light was that of a Seraphims, and she would be engulfed in awe and ecstasy so strong and so painful.
When he looked at her, with the bluest eyes she had ever seen, he saw her bare. Her faults, her shiverring, snivelling faults were all held up to him, and he would be her judge. She wanted him to hit her. She wanted him to slam her head against the ground. She wanted him to make her vomit out of all her thoughts, all of her bad things, all of her imperfections - and only he could do it because only he was perfect.
Everyone around them were worse than even she. They were lying, directionless worms - wriggling in their self-made dirt and obsessing over their own, self-made feces. Over and over again, they could never see the boot driving down, the beak slicing through the mud. This was them. She was barely any better, just a scrape above the rest - just worthy enough, but still in dire need of deserved correction.
She needed his fists. She needed his eyes. She needed him to cut out her heart.
She could imagine his voice in her ear. Telling her how pathetic she was. Telling her how disgusting she was. Telling her the truth, the only truth, the ecstatic, awesome, perfect truth.She imagined, oh, she dared to imagine - she imagined his words turning sweet. A guilty pleasure, maybe not a lie. He'd tell her how he'd improve her, fix her, how he was the only man who could ever tame her, hold her, control her. He'd tell her that he'd use her. That she was to be used. That she was his.She could come to that. She could be all aching and desperate and shuffling and ruin his gentle, soft, kind words with her blushing body and stupid, twitching legs. His words alone, forget his touch, forget his unsoft lips, forget the seaslug that he hid between his legs. She needed not that, her love was purer, her love was what every boy wanted - devoted, innocent, true.
When he looked at her, with his molten-eyes, his too blue eyes, his heartless, kind eyes - she knew she would never have these things.