He’s slight in every sense of the word. Fine-boned, like a delicate bird. Pale and sickly. Shoulders rounded, back slumped. A heavy breath from paper-thin lungs could break him.
I want to cradle him.
I want to wrap my large, dark hands around his tiny torso and squeeze. I want to read the notches of his spine with my heavy fingertips, pluck and play his pronounced ribs with my thumbs. My fat tongue fights to taste his powdery flesh. My ears yearn for the crinkle of his reedy skin.
I need him.
Just as he needs me. He’s my baby, my child, a man born of my desire and aching. He is my manifestation.
He looks to me. For care. For comfort. For protection.
And all I want to do is hurt him.
He knows that look. Understands it. Me. More than I even know myself.
My steps are careful, but I am clumsy. Big feet, stubby toes, long limbs. I am everything he is not.
I am his God.
He is my Goddess.
And we fucking hate each other for it.
Long fingers curl into a ball tight enough to crack air. The strike is solid, satisfying.
The sight of red pleases me. He whimpers. I giggle.
The tear is angry, but not alone. More crowd his blind eyes until they fall together, storming down the misshapen hills and valleys of his face. They gather at the peak of his chin, clinging to one another, impregnating each other until there is nowhere to go but down.
Rain meets concrete and I am empty once again.
I turn away, but his claw-like fingers find a wisp of my shift. Clinging. Pulling.
I step forward, dragging him. One inch. One foot.
I stop to peer over my shoulder, to see if he’s still there. If he’s still devoted to me.
His flesh has betrayed him, streaking gore across the gritty floor, leaving him in strips and chunks.
It is my turn to whimper. To moan. To mourn the loss of such beautiful, delicious meat.
I kneel to him. Take his face in my grotesque hands. Press my plump mouth to his sealed lips. Drag my hot tongue along the bitter muscle that is his.
And I squeeze.