And now they can never get the timing just right. When they join together it forms a grotesque shape, all edges too sharp and dips and valleys too soft. There no sound other that a quiet gasping, because someone has always run out of air. They are so twisted and broken that they can’t even look each other in the eyes, and yet they can’t let go (don’t want to).

So every night they twist a little farther into each other. They break their souls so that the jagged pieces cut each other, the metaphor becoming so real sometimes that they will wake up with their bodies still tangled together, now slick with blood, and their mouths tasting like copper. And it’s fucking perfect.

undead but still alive