Pygmalion, my love
rating: +15+x

My body is yours. Even if it’s missing pieces. Even if it doesn't fill up all the space it’s supposed to. It is clay, and you mold it however you like.

Put me on your pedestal. Let me be the hairless, bloodless, blemishless idol you pray to in the cover of night.

Paint my reds and browns in swaths of pale marble. Kneel before me and drag your fingertips over valleys of hard stone that once was warm flesh.

Drag your lips against my unflinching knuckles and smile when I cannot pull away.

Drape me in all of your expensive furs and silks while I pretend they are meant for me.

Wail and blubber when the stone goddess you’ve created offers you no warmth in the endless cold of your being.

Let your hands shake and teeth gnash in anger when my serene expression mocks your turmoil.

This is what you wanted after all.

I will not mourn when your flesh begins to sag.

I will only smile knowingly.

For I am stone. I am hard and immobile. I am smooth and without flaw. Without sympathy.

But you, my love, will wither. Flesh will slough off of your brittle bones, and they too will be reduced to dust.

I will watch all the while.

As for me? I will be beautiful long after your demise. Men will flock to kneel at my pedestal while your bones enrich the soil beneath their clamoring feet.

I will be just as beautiful when their bones join yours.

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