Juxtaposition

He was the definition of juxtaposition. This whole time, he has been both the LORD and The Adversary, the lamb and the serpent. He fought so hard to save me, a mislead child, and raise me to my salvation and a place with his Heavenly Host, all the while damning me to an eternity of fire and suffering. Give and take, give and take. He was an unmerciful God and a merciful demon, all at once, and with one clawed hand he took hold of my heart as another hand, soft and loving, caressed my face with gentle care. While one thumb traced my cheekbone with all the attention of a lover, those malicious claws ripped my forsaken heart from my very chest and squeezed with all the hate of a wronged brother. My blood dripped from between those unearthly fingers as his lips tasted mine.
My salvation.
Just as soon as he now owned what he thought his, he let me go and stole my pathetic, half-beating heart to add to an ever-growing collection. His hands would touch me, one hand burning and scratching and the other cooling and soft as water. His teeth bit into my flesh to taste my blood, and only once he had learned to memorize every valley and every mountain of my body and my mind did that angel leave me. Free falling through a cutting, icy wind he left me, and went along his merry way as I floundered to my demise. He had not even the good nature to sew to my back wings of tar and feathers.
My body hit the ground, but I felt no pain. I was a hollow shell, a hallowed hall, that no longer housed a holy spirit he could attain.
And so this is what I have become–a monster, an unholy being with his name carved into my flesh. One moment I am a calming breeze, and the next I am a raging storm. I love and I hate. I hurt and I don’t. I fall and I fly.
I walk by all the places he is said to be seen every day. I want to force him to see, force him to look at what he has turned me into–a shade, a phantom dark as night and sleek as smoke he cannot touch. An empty temple of a long-forgotten deity, standing piteously lonely and full of vengeful natures, full up of songs and hymns that speak his name in words unknown to him. And he does–that demon, he hurts, but not so much as I. Somewhere, in his care, my faint heart still beats at a distance from me, long since forgotten on a shelf in his mind. He has filled it with pins, ripped it into pieces with his hands, made it a play-thing he may have once found amusement in.
But the monster that came to live under his bed would like to have it back, to cram back into her ragged chest that she may breath again, and become the very thing he fears the most. For it is her turn to conquer him.

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