The sound of your rumbling voice still lingers on my tongue like a rotted apple, writhing with maggots. That print of your palm on my reddening face still burns like a nest of fire ants, just as the rest of my body refuses to forget everything else. Scars covered beneath endless scars. Memories submerged in obsidian oil, surfacing only to taunt me. It is here, in this moment, with black roses surrounding your unmarked grave, that I revel in your suffering with a small smile and a gleam in my eye. A faint whisper escapes me. “I win.” Then I wake up and remember once more.
© Sarah Doughty
Apologies for no Him post today.
After working very hard to release Dream Spell and Zoe,
I need a little breather.
You’ll see more Him next Saturday!
If you’re behind, feel free to catch up here.
Photo and edit are mine.