You stand teetering by the edge of this urban abyss. A lifetime of drudgery beneath your feet, and little above to show for it. Absence of found love left you bleeding and impotent until empty. Only a husk remains, this empty vessel in which you pilot. One that yearns to be filled, with honeyed inspiration and guidance from some other.
Oh lost little lamb, you would be so perfect to be filled with His light. If only you were willing to accept such grace. If only you were possessed by such semblance of will like your sisters. But alas the experiences of your life has left you at ease instead with the obscuring dark than that of pursuit for the sun. And while stilled time may sedate your pain, it does not cleanse you of that sinful pride which first hurt you. So of course instead of Him it would be Her for whom you would tumble and fall.
She whom ascended this heavenly spire and tasted of it’s sacred fruit, yet was found wanting. An indomitable spirit unfettered by the allure of friction-less pleasure. She whom holds no regard for the gifts of divine providence. This wolf whom would rather prey upon little lambs. Forgive your sister for thinking that your sacrifice could tame her hunger. That your flesh could distract her from the scent of her self-destructive hunt.
No she will never avert her pursuit of pain. It is itself a pleasure to her. She will never accept the conceit of submission nor of defeat. But she will accept you, as you march to her den as earnest tribute. After all you are not so dissimilar from what she seeks. She has seen it all before, she knows of those which you are just alike and so as well how you taste. She will take you all the way to that brink just to whet her hunger. She will fill the void of your cavity with the flavoured memory in that which she pursues. And you will worship her, for having seen and possessed you.
Yes those hands, they linger around a shape that you do not form. Those eyes, they pierce through your shell as if transparent. This wolf chooses not to acknowledge the discrepancies which make that which you are. Instead she only holds for love for that which she fills you from that hose. As you descend so rapidly down those many floors, a terrible thought chills you beyond the cold of the blistering air. That perhaps it was not misfortune or another that pushed you down. That instead this propulsion was self imposed. A desperate gamble to assess her true sentiment. You wonder if she will seek you out down there, dogmatically just like her muse. If she will ever see you as something else. And if not, if you would even want from her to be found.
(A truly divinely constructed game which indeed did afflict me with beautiful pain! Visceral imagery and deeply considered ambience paints this story about our eternal pursuits of love, and the discrepancies of what that means, from the perspectives of these deeply conflicted women. Although perhaps not the intended point of this story, I am inspired to possess such an indomitable resolve to whimsically drag another down with me into a hell of my own making. A role reversal of my usual performance, to impose upon another whom is unwilling to disappoint me. To perhaps grant them that gift of opportunity: To express whom they are, through a thorough rejection of that in which they are not. Or failing that, to at least keep me company as I seek to wallow in the muck.)