Romance that rhymes with ruin; obsession’s a song they’re both fluent in.
Vale tastes potential like other men taste wine—notes of desperation, hints of untapped brilliance, the full-bodied flavor of someone ripe for unmaking.
Kieran plays for spare change in subway filth, that stuttering voice transforming into something holy only when he sings. Sick. Abandoned. Already intimate with the architecture of suffering.
Exquisite.
In Vale’s remote studio, lessons in music become lessons in metamorphosis.
The basement grows familiar with the symphony of Kieran’s breaking—canvas bags and careful suffocation, fingers that teach through calculated trauma, the wet percussion of tears against concrete.
Each session strips another layer. Each perfectly placed touch rewrites the boundaries between salvation and damnation.
In the space between breaths, between the hand that holds the throat and the mouth that gasps for air, something hungry awakens.
Kieran writes “Poison Saviors” with blood under his fingernails, not knowing he’s penning their wedding vows.
Not understanding that when he finally kisses back, he’s teaching Vale a new kind of suffocation.
And Vale, collector of broken beautiful things, discovers too late that some possessions hollow you out from the inside—leaving you desperate for the very poison you’ve been feeding.
[So sleep now in my burning bed; dream of chains that feel like silk; I’ll feed you poison honey; and bitter, burning milk.
And when you wake, you’ll understand what I have always known: Love isn’t meant to set you free— love claims you as its own]
