By your words, I am slain.
And I feel the blood,
as it pours out of me,
boiling as you paint the walls.
I feel this,
and I am satisfied.
Maybe not a crime of passion,
but it is a crime nonetheless.
And it assures me
that you are just as capable
of dying as I am.

The past, it has shackled me to the floor.
And now, here, in this desolate place,
we claw at each other like tethered beasts.
You are held down, just as I am, but I see no shackles.
Tell me, how did we really get here?

I am unaware of my surroundings.
My head is, well, reeling.
I hear many things,
but my fragile mind can process
only the sound of the rushing air.

I feel...
dismembered.

What have we become?

The thought leaves me
completely dismantled.

A man, burdened with
a stalled existence,
finds himself reeling
in both comfort and agony.

By day, he wears a mask,
evenings are spent
slamming his head
against the wall.

What is there left
for him to do?
All out of options,
he encases himself.

Her arms are locked in an honest embrace.
In this moment, she is vulnerable and she is weak.
She is unaware of the things that I can see,
and she is unaware that I could tear her to pieces.

And as I shed my scales,
she picked them up,
and one by one,
she laced them together
and draped me, again, in armor.