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The man I love is not for the faint of heart.
He’s an artist, a maniac, a brilliant sculptor capable of molding the most delicate clay into something beautiful and unbreakable. He teases that he makes magic, but it’s not a joke to me. He is a magician.
He will break you apart and rebuild you, and only then will you know true freedom.
He will give you what you never knew you needed, whether you want him to or not.
He will make you his.
If you’re me, anyway.
I thought I knew what love was, but he opened my eyes to depths invisible to anyone who doesn’t know him.
I don’t know how I lived for so long in the cold, cruel world without him.
Now, I need him to breathe, and he needs me the same way.
Call it sickness, call it obsession.
Tell me I’m brainwashed, that he’s more villain than hero.
I don’t care.
I’m in love, and this is the story of how he made me his.
