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 love, aching in its wake; and there is no place to put it.
⠀
⠀even with this realization ...
⠀he continued to 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 on the
⠀patient . ⠀chewing on their
⠀bones after licking it clean
⠀from the meat that used
⠀to be attached to their body .
⠀it was something .. new !!..
⠀something ---
⠀
( a content sigh, leaning into the scratching. ) ahhh ... any, it's okay. any, it's okay. ( huddling in closer, arms wrapped around the back of the secretary; nearly tipping him all the way over if it weren't for their hold. )
( a sound, akin to grinding, emits from them, rubbing their chin and cheek against him with a similar amount of force. not quite a headbutt, but similar enough to reciprocate. )