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The two of them, they are love. It’s rotten and twisted, but it is love. The kind of love that you think about late at night, wondering whether it would be worth the anguish to see them again, the kind of love that makes your guilty pleasures shameful, the kind of love that crawls out of heavy cast shadows in alleyways and watches through half-closed curtains.
They are love.
He’s never been loved by anyone before. Forsaken by his parents, he has only known hatred and anger. That’s how he loves. Violently and passionately, tearing his partner into ribbons and stitching them back up just to do it again. He does not know how else to express his affection. That is how he was loved before, and that is how he will love now.
She needs him like he’s air. She was loved before, just never enough. The people around her only spared her bits of affection when it was convenient, and now she needs to be smothered in it. He engulfs her in the love she craves, ripping her open and praising how beautiful her insides are. She would do anything for him, anything for his attention, anything for just an ounce of affection from her beloved. She needs him.
They are love. Nobody has ever understood him like she does. They didn’t understand his way of showing affection, and she begs him for it like it’s the only thing that’s ever on her mind. He drowns her in his love, giving her kisses on her ribcage as he flays her, scalpel serenading her skin. She lets him see the deepest parts of her, and he makes his home there, furnishing her soul that lies empty from neglect with blood-red roses. He digs his fingers into her entrails, and her guts pulsing around his fingers sing the most beautiful ‘I love you’.
They are love. He kills her and brings her back over and over and over because they don’t know how to show it any other way. Nothing else conveys just how strongly they feel about each other. They need each other. Without her, he is just a monster, and without him she is nobody at all. She lets him justify his need to hurt as an act of kindness, and he gives her a purpose. They need each other, because they are love.
Their dance of death swirls around sterile metal tables and they sway to a melody of screams, their bloody footprints painting a picture of animalistic need that mirrors the love in her voice when she cries for him. She would die without him, and he is killing her.
They are love.