Fear me, dear.
For though my tongue drips with honey
and words flow from my mouth smooth as midnight silk;
A volatile demeanor and proficiency with word craft
can see this sugar turn to venom with the swiftness and severity,
of a lightning strike.
I will cut you down.
Fear me, dear.
For though in this moment I describe my adoration,
as though its' power would make a super nova pale in comparison.
Too much time creating my own little worlds,
in which I incorporate all that which has caused my bliss and sorrow,
has blurred my reality.
You will become another story.
Fear me, dear.
For though my smile melts you as a hot knife through butter,
and you hear every word I speak with a tone of utter sincerity,
I'm far too fond of writing truth between the lines,
of layering what I really feel so deep it's near impossible to find.
You will never know.
Fear me, dear.
It's for the best.