Nina

the sheer intimacy of being unmade by love

There’s something unspeakably intimate about the way he breaks you.

Not with rage, not with fire, but with that soft, sick devotion that makes monsters out of men who think they’re saving you.

He tells you not to cry.

He tells you it’s for your own good.

He tells you he loves you too much to let you go.

You feel his breath against the back of your neck as his hands settle there trembling, reverent. You almost want to believe this is still love, that this is still the same man who once kissed the bruises on your knees after he dragged you from the temple. The same man who promised you a quiet, perfect life.

But then the pain blooms.

It starts deep, where bone meets the ghost of what used to be divine and suddenly it’s not just pain, it’s loss. The sound of tearing isn’t just flesh and feather; it’s every prayer you’ve ever whispered turning into a scream. God, did it hurt.

“No… no, what have I done to you?” you rasped, throat scraped raw. The Seraphina voice you once sang for the Lord with was gone hollowed out, unrecognizable, like He’d taken it back.

He murmurs things as he works,

"you shouldn’t have run",

"you shouldn’t have tried to leave me, I would’ve given you everything."

Each word lands heavier than the next.

When he’s done, you’re trembling so hard it feels like your bones might splinter. You think surely God will take you away from this man, this terrible man. But heaven’s gone quiet lately. God’s gone deaf, or maybe He just stopped caring to listen.

He presses his forehead to the place where your wings once bloomed, breath hot against ruined skin, and whispers that he’s sorry, that it hurts him more than it hurts you. And you believe him, in that awful, sacred way only the damned can. It does hurt him. But he’d still rather peel you open, feather by feather, than ever watch you fly. Because there’s nothing more monstrous than love in the hands of someone who mistakes possession for protection, and worship for ruin.

You were sure now, there’d be no second flight, no foolish try for freedom. You were completely his.

Credits to the owners of the pics above!!

And the truth is that, Being carried within someone can feel like safety but it can also mean erasure so, the most intimate forms of care (feeding, being fed) share a border with the most intimate forms of harm, that is cannibalism! Romance totally depends on distance yk two people, two names, two faces and it also dreams of abolishing that distance, cannibalism is the most brutal abolition imaginable. When you're inside your lover or vice-versa, the spatial problem of intimacy is solved with absolute efficiency. There is no “across,” no “between” only interiority, like, can you be ANY closer to them? Probably no. But this solution cancels what it promised to be perfect. If love marvels at the beloved as other (another person), then eating the beloved erases the very otherness that made love possible.