Truth in the Dark

You cannot take a person's humanity and then retain your own

Sex was lovely. Sex was sublime. Sex was flesh and cock and suck and fuck and come. This night sex was starlight. Sex was oxygen. Sex was us, and we were beautiful, beautiful and perfect in each other's arms.

I was terrified of my weakness, of my sharp tongue, of my every flaw. I was terrified that this moment, my chance to live in happiness for however short a time we may have had, would be ruined because I was simply not carved out of the same wood as happiness, and that my grain was too twisted to ever take its form.

Oh gods... oh gods... I had hurt him... so many times, I had hurt him. By trying to hurt myself, I had hurt him. By trying to push him away, I had hurt him. Every time I opened my mouth and belittled myself with my "turns of rough poetry", I had sliced his heart as fine as my wrists. I did not know why he loved me as he did. I might never know. But as I stood there and held him, my back nagging at me and my leg screaming in protest, I realized that the least I could do was welcome his love with an open heart. And part of doing that was loving myself enough to want to live.

And the storm was my nemesis, my goddess, my salvation

Being loved can do marvelous things for a man.

The world isn't made a better place by the unburdening of a heart.

I tried very hard not to ponder the horrible irony that I was too ugly to love, and too ugly not to violate.

Oh gods, are you listening? A storm out at sea is one of your greatest creations. You should hear it praised. The sky is dark, almost as night, and the swells... they were taller than mountains.

What must it be like to have such faith in the world, in plans, in your own ability to control your fate? It was contagious, that's what it was. I could not help it. I caught his hope like a plague.

The man I fought with, the man who comforted me, the man who tried valiantly to slay my inner dragons on a daily basis, in spite of their preference for the tender flesh near his heart.

And he was kind. So damned kind. A man like me… a man like me did not take kindness for weakness. Kindness in the face of all the tiny knives the world had to throw at a body—that was real strength.

My attackers were too brutish or too unimaginative to reason that the true violation of my spirit would not be through my arse but through my craft, and so my fingers were left unbroken, and my skill remained mine. But