No gentle rain, no growing wind, his words on her beauty like the locust cloud, a train-load of predators strip bare, pick clean the grain and the green leaf. No loyal slave, no willing accomplice to her looks, he gave her the hangman’s kiss, brought the leper’s hand to her face. No careful shepherd, but the famished wolf to kill the lamb, drag the carcass back to his books, eat the flesh, crack the bones open, lick out the marrow. But wait, dead she would only be a ghost to haunt him. As you can see, it wasn’t really love, more a kind of sick hatred based on fear of something more powerful. Her sex in its freedom surpassed and escaped his need for her, it could run too far too quickly, outpace him, leave him behind. So he built her a cage with the clean lines and straight edges of the written page where she can spend her days in captivity, seen and admired, fed through the bars on titbits of praise and affection. But in his mind she pines for her freedom to hurt him, to taunt and tease every stranger, flirt with them, slip between their sheets, find a thousand ways to please them this afternoon and perhaps again tomorrow.Birth sign: Libra
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