there is nothing poetic about being loved by me, akin to a rot that spreads, from the heart to the tips of my fingers, the soles of my feet, an all consuming llove, aching in its waake, and there is no place to put it.

ᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠ ᅠ ᅠᅠᅠ ᅠᅠᅠ Interaction libre ᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠ ᅠ ᅠᅠ ᅠ

https://t.co/4HKYIVWTkv

cold precision, unyielding gaze. affection offered like a weapon — sharp, exact. she shows no hunger, yet devours all in her path. devotion twists into obsession, desire into ruin. those who endure her shadow learn to crave the void.

she was raised on discipline and duty, taught to love through restraint and survive through blood. kindness lives in her hands, even when they shake. violence was never her desire — only her inheritance. what she carries is the burden of choosing who she must become.