While many may believe that having long, flowing hair is a blessing, to me, it feels like a curse—an enchantment woven by dark hands.
I am certain it is his curse upon me.
His touch, like serpents slithering across my skin, ignites something dark and primal within me. His voice, a whisper of shadows, weaves through the air as he murmurs my name, each syllable a binding spell.
The way I feel—the way he makes me feel—is a torment that I can neither escape nor wholly resent. I loathe him, yet I cannot deny the fevered pleasure his presence stirs within me.
I crave it, this twisted desire. The sound of his voice lingers long after he's gone, and the ghost of his touch haunts my skin until I'm left writhing in my own need, driven to the edge of madness. My fingers become the only solace, delving deep in a desperate attempt to quell the ache he leaves behind.
It is nothing short of a curse—a wicked enchantment that binds me to him, body and soul.
