mmecorpse
I knew what I was going into when I said I do to you. You held my hand, looked me in the eye, and with an unshakable force you strongly proclaimed, "I do." I echoed your words, knowing full-well that I didn't mean them.
That day, I gained absolutely everything I could have ever wanted---my heart, and my freedom, were my only sacrifices.
His artistry becomes him. "Hold still," he says to me. I roll my eyes and hold up my chin, keeping his rose close to my cheek.
He told me once, "I'm an artist, too." I remember laughing and asking how:
"The way you fall into my arms, the soft and shallow breaths you take when I kiss your neck... the way your fingers ghost mine, the movement of your lips as you tell me you love me... your artistry is love."
He wanted to paint that love and make it immortal.
You lead a herd more faithful than Manson's lot. You're a god in their eyes, you know? With a single flick of your pinkie you could command the seas to part and the open to open and bring forth the sun. That's what they think; drugs are a powerful motivator, aren't they?
Semi. Cold. Your finger clutches the trigger, and it's ready to go. You feel the power as it echoes through your fingers, into your bones. Static splits your skull. Your gun-hand is singing; the enemy is before you. Let your bullets fly.