I prefer to write in pen; something more permanent. Like a tattoo placed on porcelain skin, it cannot be wiped away; it cannot be erased. It will not be easy to forget everything I’ve said or even of the mark I’ve placed upon your own skin. I recall the moment when your hands found their way to my skin. “So soft,” you whispered- or mumbled, rather. Your breath smelled of whiskey and you were eager to fulfill your own desires, so how could I blame you for not seeing the deceit in my eyes.

I am up to no good, nor was I ever, but with this skin so smooth and soft, with my fingers placing the perfect touch onto you, how could you have expected that could do any harm? I could do no harm. I could do no good. My blood was boiling and my fingers were ready to claw at your skin. I am ready to shred you into pieces. I will turn you into nothing, as you always were to me.

 

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