the worst kind of empath

[I'm going to call this one an unstable release, a beta build. I had the idea and I was just fiddling around with it, but I don't yet know where to go with it next. Stay tuned.]

[9.19: Nigh eight months later, I've finally finished this. Enjoy.]

"Grace" by Antoine.

I once knew a woman

in the sense of knowing

everything

about her.

Though the logic of my story is unclear,

my words are truth.

Something special, a force for now recumbent,

radiates inside me: it is

a curse, a blessing, a cursed redressing

of my muddled existentialism.

It is as I experience it a beast:

one which remains idle until

awakened by a passion of the heart.

It was winter; the date

was unnoticed and largely irrelevant.

I had ventured (on my own)

alone to take a moment to regret the past

and swallow all my memories and fears

via spirit-snatching spirit.

When I entered she noticed me:

I knew she was watching.

I could feel her eyes zero

in on my bastard soul

and I could feel her

loving me. This I could not help but feel.

I knew she was trouble but I could not

entrance her eyes to stray

from my throwaway countenance.

I call "another" --

she twitches --

down my throat --

she gets up, shit.

She approaches, goodness,

enters my life in an instant,

alighting on the barstool of my grief.

She utters and I dare to look her in the eyes;

I twitch with awe

at such a beautiful

disaster warning.

She is speaking but I can't under --

I zone in. "Hello ?

I'm Grace. You are ?"

Words are spilt;

we make plans.

I am in no fit state to love

but I cannot control my feelings;

she does.

You see, I am

the worst kind of empath.

Everything she feels I feel

stronger;

that is the rule of the beast.

From that day onward she was

my second nature, and (o misfortune !)

she being inexplicably madly in love with me,

I vowed my very life on her

and my every action was blinded by her

grace.

When she held me,

I smothered her with lovelust:

bound her tight within my armspan like a gift.

When she kissed me,

I was overcome with passion

and denied her time to pause for breath.

When she teased me,

I was truly tempted:

I threw her down and tore her open,

quelled my carnal craving for her sweetness.

I fleshed out her figure

while my ego cowered craven on the carpet.

When she grew angry,

I was livid,

screaming her out

with threats I'd never dreamed:

the more her brow furrowed,

the more I abhored her and

wished her to collapse dead from the red.

When she saddened,

I depressed,

brought cutlery to artery;

I slit the skin

and spilt the sin

that'd split me from my senses,

as she sobbed wetness on my shoulder.

She was the sixth.

I didn't mean to hurt her --

but I felt her feel for me

and couldn't stop before

it amplified reality.

The break-up was too much

for Grace

to take.