Ninth Circle (A Half Acre Of Hell) 

It’s the feeling of being set on ice, the deep muscle pain where it’s impossible to think that you can sink any lower.
My head pounds uncontrollably, and I can feel my breath start to slow, as if fresh oxygen has just broken through my lungs for the very first time.
Every nerve feels oh so fragile, as if at any moment, with any sudden movement, they’ll shatter into a million pieces, disconnecting this being and everything it stands for. 

That strange, almost sensual sensation of strangulation grips my throat, leaving an ominous tightening in my chest, but there is no pleasure in its dominance.
Instead of that kind of high, a type of rush only that act in question can provide, I feel a sense of dread, an urgency for a relief that mocks me so, one that I cannot seem to find.
Upon reaching a much needed albeit temporary moment of calm, my entire body collides with a numbness so sweet, a short-lived warmth until I feel the cold come crashing back.

My body set on ice, while my blood burns bright with a stunning rage, is how you’ve left me, my dear.
I descend into that dreaded ninth circle by your hand, an aspect of Hell that was only once imagined, never actually felt. 
Encapsulated in that same icy bath, my aching nerves, my skin set ablaze from the precision and elegance of your blade, is how you’ve left me, my love.
I fall into a half acre of Hell because of your touch, one that I will gladly dredge through to find you for the chemistry that inhabits our beings is something of destiny. 

And this is how our love story begins.

© Copyright November 2016

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