Dirty Mind, Angel Eyes

I have been told that my eyes give me away. That they hold something too soft, too unguarded, like an open book waiting to be read. But if you ever looked closer, really looked, you would see the secrets hiding beneath the surface, the quiet danger humming beneath the sweetness. I wonder—have you noticed it yet?

I know what they see when they look at me. A girl who seems untouched by the weight of the world. Who speaks gently, who carries herself like a hymn, like something meant for worship. But you, my love, you have always looked past the surface, haven’t you? You have always seen the fire beneath the quiet. The wickedness wrapped in silk. You have always known that just because something looks soft does not mean it cannot burn.

I tease you about it sometimes—the way you get lost in your own thoughts when I tilt my head, when I bite my lip as if I don’t know what I’m doing. But we both know better. I do know. I always know. That is the game we play, isn’t it? The delicate balance between innocence and something far more dangerous. The way I pretend not to notice how your breath hitches when I come just a little too close to you. The way you pretend to be unaffected, even as your fingers tighten, even as your pulse betrays you.

I wonder sometimes—what is it about me that makes you weak? Is it my face, this illusion of purity that makes you want to ruin me in the gentlest, most devastating ways? Or is it my mind—the way I weave words like a spell, the way I let you see just enough of the darkness beneath my skin to make you ache for more?

You call me your angel, but you know better than to believe it completely. I have seen the way you look at me when you think I am not watching, the way your eyes darken when I say something that lingers just a little too long between us. You know the truth. You know that beneath the halo, there are horns. That for every innocent glance, there is a thought that would set your soul on fire.

Do you remember the first time you saw it? The first time I let you catch a glimpse of the wickedness hiding beneath the softness? You looked at me differently after that. Like I had rewritten something in you, like I had taken everything you thought you knew and turned it into something new, something dangerous. And I loved it. I loved knowing that I could unravel you with just a few words, a glance, a well-timed smile.

You tell me I drive you mad. That there is something infuriating about the way I exist—like a contradiction, like a puzzle that refuses to be solved. And maybe that is true. Maybe I was made to be both temptation and restraint, both the dream and the downfall. Maybe I was made to keep you on the edge of something just out of reach, forever chasing, forever wanting.

But you, my love, are just as guilty. You play this game as well as I do. You meet my teasing with patience, my mischief with something just as dangerous. You let me dance along the line of innocence and sin, and then you pull me back just before I cross it. You let me have my fun, let me push and pull and test the limits of our unspoken rules. But we both know—one day, one of us will slip. One day, I will push too far, or you will stop holding back, and then—

Well. You know as well as I do that there is no coming back from that.

Until then, we keep playing. We keep pretending that we are not one misstep away from disaster. We keep pretending that I am an angel, and that you do not want to watch me fall.

Tell me, love—what will you do when I finally stop pretending?

Neta.