NEMESIS
Her Voice — MY FAVORITE FOE
You wear your smirk like sharpened steel,
a weapon I have learned to fear—
and crave.
Each glance we trade
is a duel in disguise,
your eyes tossing barbed riddles
across the space between us.
I am the shadow at your heel,
the storm on your horizon—
you, the thorn in my perfect garden.
And still… I sometimes wonder
how your mouth might taste
mid-battle.
Yet somehow,
we are bound in this dance
of strike and counterstrike,
of victory that tastes sweeter
when it is stolen from you.
Perhaps you are my curse.
Perhaps I am yours.
But tell me—
what would either of us be
without the other to fight for it?
His Voice — MY WORTHY RIVAL
You call me thorn,
storm,
curse…
But you forget—
I was made for this duel,
and you are the only one
who draws my blade so easily.
Each word you throw at me
strikes clean and true—
but you know I will always
answer in riddles.
Each strike you take
only makes me want to step closer.
Do you not see it?
We sharpen each other.
We make the fire burn hotter.
And if I ever claimed victory,
if I ever saw you yield—
the world would grow dull,
colorless,
unbearably tame.
So keep your barbs,
your fire,
your wicked smile…
Because perhaps you are my undoing.
Perhaps I am yours.
But tell me—
what would either of us be
if we ever stopped
fighting for it?
....
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 8:40 PM UTC
NEMESIS
Her Voice — MY FAVORITE FOE
You wear your smirk like sharpened steel,
a weapon I have learned to fear—
and crave.
Each glance we trade
is a duel in disguise,
your eyes tossing barbed riddles
across the space between us.
I am the shadow at your heel,
the storm on your horizon—
you, the thorn in my perfect garden.
And still… I sometimes wonder
how your mouth might taste
mid-battle.
Yet somehow,
we are bound in this dance
of strike and counterstrike,
of victory that tastes sweeter
when it is stolen from you.
Perhaps you are my curse.
Perhaps I am yours.
But tell me—
what would either of us be
without the other to fight for it?
His Voice — MY WORTHY RIVAL
You call me thorn,
storm,
curse…
But you forget—
I was made for this duel,
and you are the only one
who draws my blade so easily.
Each word you throw at me
strikes clean and true—
but you know I will always
answer in riddles.
Each strike you take
only makes me want to step closer.
Do you not see it?
We sharpen each other.
We make the fire burn hotter.
And if I ever claimed victory,
if I ever saw you yield—
the world would grow dull,
colorless,
unbearably tame.
So keep your barbs,
your fire,
your wicked smile…
Because perhaps you are my undoing.
Perhaps I am yours.
But tell me—
what would either of us be
if we ever stopped
fighting for it?
....
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