the Red means I Love You

can't let go of what's mine to lose

note: this is fictional, mostly inspired by this song:

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It's a restless kind of agony, red seeping through every locked compartment, unwilling to be silenced.

Veins stretched taut, carrying the fury of borrowed light, the kind that devours from within.

Gorgeous; blood spilled on white sheets, staining everything it touches, turning what was once pure into something visceral. Gruesome; a body that refuses to die; twitching, writhing, as if the soul still wants to stay.

The walls bend inwards, suffocating the room in a way that feels deliberate, as though everything is closing in because it has no other choice. The blood seeps in, slowly at first, suffusing the air with something heavy, something thick. The scent lingers, sharp and metallic, and soon it’s everywhere—no surface left untouched—it’s alive, and it is hungry.

Desire tastes bitter on the tongue, a craving that feels more a need than a want. It lodges itself in the back of your throat, choking, pulling you toward the inevitable, as if you can already feel the weight of your own demise settle in your chest. The hunger is insatiable, feeding off the mere thought of what it could bring, even as it pushes you closer to the very thing that will obliterate you.

Salvation and destruction, all at once. You can’t hide it now; you’re too far gone. At a point you may have been able to turn it all around, but not anymore. The yearning is a thirst, growing needier the more you try to ignore it. You’re drawn to it like a moth to a flame, not because you believe it will save you, but because it’s the only thing that still feels real.

It’s not tragic because it always has been this way; but because it was once something else. Something innocent, mututal even.

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