He whispers red light words, letter-shaped scythes that bite into tender flesh. Sentences like vortexes pull you down into that dark hole where monsters live. A call to skin-dive in a deep black sea. To night prayers. To step over the threshold and be soaked in the downpour. The monsoon of the damned and the divine, the vile and the sublime.
When all you want is to show him is how beautifully you bleed. How the rivulets of blood well up and spill over the living parchment to form responses to the call. The ichor answers in eloquent crimson flourishes: you seethe, you rage, you curse, you fear, you drink and drown in shared iniquities.
The writing of perdition.
RG,
this is superb, and beautiful.
Paul.