Ruining her was a part of the plan.
It was a part of his prose that he
so deliberately wrote down.

   Ruining her was merely a
  fraction of his deepened
attraction and rooted nature
that was of his own accord.

One look, one simple taste
was enough for him to determine
his destructive path.

  She had no say in such a plan,
for she wasn't aware of such intentions
that would soon ruin her,
everything she stood for,
and the innocence and
compassion that
she prided herself in.

That vanity and that admiration
for her compassionate
conceit is what
drew him to her.  

  That's what he wanted.
A passionate conceit because
he so coldly lacked one.
He desired to have it, to
possess what was hers.


He wrapped his digits
around the
width of such vanity,
stroking it with
brutal gentleness,
and then
he ripped it apart,
tainting and corrupting it
until that very conceit
was tarnished.

   Ruined and stained,
  that's what she was.

That's what he wanted.
He could taste it on his tongue,
lapping up at the censure
flavor of power.

It was bitter and prudent,
and he expected nothing
else.

That varnished and
sour taste was merely a
reminder of what he had done,
of what he was relishing in.

  He was cunningly honest.
  He was vehemently kind.
  He was brutally gentle.