She is Life.
She is Light, laughter and promise.
I am Death.
I am Midnight, anguish and barrenness.
At the Core
Inside her bosom is a womb that nurtures a loving soul.
Surrounding, my ribcage is a prison that entombs a bitter void.
Integrity
She is short of sin.
I am not quite criminal.
We are so different
Irony.
We love one another tenderly, permanently.
Absurdity
We bicker, childishly, repeatedly.
Conflict.
Battles of accusations, blame. We wound with words that cut.
Animosity
We suffer emotional injuries. We rub at them in self-pity. We condemn the transgression of the other. We hate one another.
Remorse
Disbelief strikes us numb; the reality that we are capable of saying such evil words. We mourn in guilt, ashamed. We hate ourselves.
Repentance
We lick each others’ wounds tenderly, as would wolves who mate for life.
We are so alike.
Great!
Thanks! Eric that is the good critique I have been needing.
Bosom seems like such an old lady word, used by women who are too prudish to say breasts. Makes me laugh 🙂
Bosom does kind of sound more line a “uni-breast” or ogre’s hump of some sort. I think once a woman gets a bosom she starts to menstruate dust.