I knelt beside her, fingers in golden hair, soft as spun sin. Aurora. My sleeping beauty. Unkissed. Untouched. They whispered true love could wake her. But I do not love. I harvest.
Skin like porcelain. Lips like ripe fruit. I lean close as her lips beckon. My heart pounds a sacrament. Do I kiss her? No. I carve.
My blade sings. One stroke, clean, practiced. Blood pearls, blooming. Her lips, perfect, join my collection in velvet-lined glass. So many mouths, still, red, and waiting. Silenced. Never kissed. All mine.
Love never came. But I did. And now, Aurora, sleep forever.
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alt="Sitting on Aine's Cursed Stone by Crystal N. Ramos"
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alt="Harbinger of Death by Jonathan L. Tolstedt"
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alt="Famine Man by Deborah Tapper"
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