Tasha, Tasha Black was a though lover, a black hearted lover, a strong lover and a lover so pure in his pitch black he was white. He was the kind of lover to drag a you by hair crying saying it was your fault and then kissed your feet at night begging for attention. The kind to beat you bloody on a bad day and lick the blood of your wounds on a good one.

He was a toxic, psychic, flip flop between sadistic and masochistic type of man and he knows this, his knows this all too well. But he wasn't malicious, things just happened. He wasn't malicious in fucking your best friend in your home, wasn't malicious in burning you clothes, wasn't malicious beating you till you miscarried, he just couldn't help it.

Couldn't help the hollow hole in his chest a heart sometimes appeared, the cold expressions that lingered on his face loner than the warm ones. So he'd cry for you, to you, with you, for you. Strong raw tears, with snot and drool, hard guttural sobs that contorted his handsome face. He'd cuddle you in bed, in your sleep, even if you didn't want it, he forced it.

And he never let you go. He was your devil and your angel, your Master and your slave. And so in quiet moments, like this one, on the couch, you with your bloody lip and he bloody knuckles. Watching TV, head on your shoulder in a completely totaled living room. You simply enjoy it.