His hands shake something furious,
and you don’t know how to stop them,
don’t know if they belong to a killer or a lover,
or if there’s even a difference anymore.
His shadow dances with yours
in the streetlights;
your darkness has found a kindred spirit,
but you are still trying
to take the fear from his mouth.
Demons and angels are at war inside of him,
and you swear to love every single one,
swear to love him wicked,
swear to love him holy.
He is licking prayers
he stopped believing
into your mouth;
if you thought kissing him
would save him,
you were dead wrong.
— Emily Palermo, On Loving A Monster (via queensmilitant)