she's unopened bottles of rosé, lipstick and corsets. she's taken you, breathed you in and out faster than you could count the ways you were deceived. you were told love was the way, but how could it be, when the incarnation of love is a rose with more thorns than petals?
it looked appealing. standing in the oracle's temple, licking your wounds, tasting flesh left behind and broken. it was all soft colors, lip bites, satin sheets made more for love than sleep. it took you far too long to find the blood in them, to wash out the anger trapped in your chest. and it was worse than the fires, worse than the pain; but did you ever think it wasn't going to be? after all, you came as a masochist. you bared yourself for her, for kisses without love, listening without believing, leaving before being left.
she comes and leaves with the ichor of the those before you in her hair, and the heavenly fire she lights beneath your feet implores you to dance, dance, until the pounding of your feet is swallowed up by all that you've lost. you do.