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She’s nothing to me—just a fucking hole.
Oh, sweet Sydney, you tragic little idiot.
That’s the thing about people—they always think they’re something until you remind them they’re not.
I can’t wait to become the Dark Queen of Cirque Du Désir.
Though, who they are when they arrive doesn’t matter. It’s who they’ll be when they leave my big top that really means something.
In this moment, she’s not just a queen—she’s the queen of my circus, the queen they need, the queen they deserve. My fucking queen.
My dark queen standing beside her skeleton king.
“My demons, they love to play with yours. They can never get enough of tasting you.”
It’s a fucking carnival of filth and I love it.
This is where I belong, in the eye of the storm, where darkness and desire collide.
She’s a storm, hiding in plain sight.
