To whoever finds this—
To whoever survives me—
To whoever thinks they understand what love feels like—
You don't.
Not until someone paints your bones with your own pain.
Not until you beg to be seen not as someone's future, but as someone's final scene.
Heian doesn't love me. And that's what makes this real.
He doesn't feed me promises. He feeds me madness—wrapped in silk ropes and crimson paint. He peels me open with fingertips dipped in want. And I let him. Not because I'm weak.
But because I'm finally free.
When I was soft, they used me.
When I was kind, they broke me.
But with him—I bleed and I matter.
With him, even my silence screams.
I've forgotten how my voice sounds outside his studio.
I don't know the last time I spoke to the sky without imagining it devouring me whole.
But I remember the way his brush kissed my inner thigh—how the bristles felt like thorns dipped in honey.
I remember the way he looked at me—
like he wanted to hang me on a wall, frame me in sorrow, and call it divine.
If I die like this—
naked, painted, open—
know that it's not tragedy.
It's fulfillment.
Because even in my last breath, I'll whisper:
"Even her death is me."
And it'll mean more than any love poem ever written.
Liora