To kill for your love

Some start with a bang. Some start with smiles. Some start with sparks.

And some, some you can't even tell how it starts at all, only that it did

and now you're

tangled. Hands and feet bound in a net wrapped, twisted around your body, around your bones, around your brains.

And you can't get out of it. But you don't want to anyways, because this is what it's like

(or as they all say) what it's like to fall in

traps.

Or so you would be inclined to believe. Because the last time your back was up

against a wall like that, so was everything else of yours. Your emotions, your convictions,

your religion. And when you finally pulled yourself off of it, you swore to the only god left that

you believed in

that you would never put anything of yours in the hands of any

beautiful person

because all beautiful people were the same. Lovely and different from afar until you got within the reach of

their crusted fingernails, their sharp talons that raked in what you had to give and locked it

away in their cold rattling chests to feed on until they could prey on their next victim. And you

were left, stripped down to the skin and running as fast as you could

into exactly what you wanted to avoid,

exactly what you swore you'd never go near again. But this time he was lovely and different from all the others. He had strong hands, a gentle touch, and you couldn't see any talons.

So there you were again, in a net, knowing you would hate yourself again in a couple months,

knowing you were tangled in the trap of another beautiful person, knowing that right now you were helpless to it, and knowing that

this time, you had a knife.

A knife to carve out the bleeding heart of a beast.