The Colour of Tears

The Colour of Tears

A Story by Devons

How beautiful she looks in the morning. Like a canvas of nature. 
I can see the subtle freckles on her nose, like a drowsy five-year-old falling asleep in Daddy’s arms. Her tousled hair and her warm fresh skin, she’s a cool clean blanket on a hot summer night. How I love her in the morning, discovering her when I awake as some pleasant surprise. It is a beautiful thing, a moment.

I do not think desire is beautiful. At least, no more beautiful than carnage. Or the adrenaline of warfare. No, beauty is not something one appreciates then. Yet the beauty of this moment somehow triggers my desire. I feel a need to want more than what I see or what I feel. It is not an intellectual feeling, yet it is intelligent. And then I am making love to her, she awakens and slowly comes round to my desire.

And sex is like a beast. A primeval predator baying for blood, the scent of the kill in its hungry nostrils. The only beauty found here is terrible. Where did love go? Am I in love now? Is this part of my love, this carnal assault of the senses? Sinking my teeth wantonly into the helpless neck of my prey? Such a wonder, such ecstasy, such explosive satisfaction of irresistible avarice. 

It is a beautiful thing, a moment.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s ox. Yet lust covets all.
I have my own ox. I covet like the butcher. The butcher who breeds his own cattle. Breeds it, nurtures it, broods over it. Then slaughters it.
Pity the poor neighbour whose ox seeks my eye.
The lust of the eye - seek its approval at your peril.
I question my moral integrity.

It’s out of my system now, I am empty. Give me time and space. She cannot touch me, I feel nothing. And she is soiled now, damp, cold and smeared. She wants me to love her, but I can’t, don’t touch me. She puts her arms around me but I’m repellent, a corpse. It’s a moment of love for her. It’s a beautiful thing, a moment. I need time and space, a hole, a corner, I want to dissolve. I want to love, I want to feel, I want to hold - I want to want, to do and feel all these things, but I cannot. I hate this, I hate myself, I hate hating this. What am I but a beast, a pig - and she an ox? I say nothing and she holds me. But I do love her, do I not? I feel numb, like cramp without the pain. Just the pain of knowledge, that I know I feel nothing. But it’s nothing but a moment, the feeling will pass. Is nothing a feeling? She holds me and I say nothing. Just don’t ask me “Do you love me?” Just don’t say “I love you” I can say nothing if you don’t ask me. I don’t want to hurt anyone, or anything, never have. Just don’t ask and I won’t tell. I don’t want to lie to anyone. I don’t want to have to lie. Just give me space and time.

It’s a beautiful thing, a moment.

What a relief it is. The whole thing is one big relief. She leaves the bed to shower. I have the time and space to think now. It’s a release. I think too much, it’s a blessing to be ignorant. Lust is clever, lust does not think. It has the intelligence not to think. Lust is selective ignorance. No. Desire. Lust, desire - just subtle names for the same thing. No. They, It, are a separate animal, the beast that takes over, a demon. Possession of the soul. She’s singing in the shower, I feel as though I’ve ruined an expensive painting. She’ll wash herself clean, but it’s superficial, I know the damage is done.

I feel better now, the feeling is returning. I put on a gown and wait for her to finish, able to look at her again, watching her through the steaming glass doors. She washes the dirty stench of love-making from her flesh. No, sex. We didn’t “make love”, that’s just another subtle word for the same thing. Where was love? Where was my heart? I was selling my soul. How beautiful she is. How sleek her body, how sheer, how innocent her form. It’s a beautiful thing, a moment.

I am scum, like the caked-in sweaty fluid that’s dried to my skin. I wash away the soil of my sin. I am superficial, like the act of washing itself. My soul is unclean, wherein resides a devil, safe in the stain I was born with for him to inhabit. No amount of steam and scrub will remove him. He is a part of me, and makes the world go round, like the angel of love as his neighbour. They are impressed upon us from the beginning, like a printing press on flesh. They are burned into our being like the geo-print of Earth. They are one, the twin-headed God of Man. How fresh and clean is my skin, like a new flower. It’s a beautiful thing, a moment.

I dress. She is poised before the mirror, a phalanx of bottles and jars at her disposal. “I feel naked without make-up” she sometimes says, “I have to put on my face”… These phrases make me sick, they disgust me. Too often, I feel no humour for them. Less and less. How beautiful she looks in the morning. Like a canvas of nature. It’s a beautiful thing, a moment. How I ruined it. How she ruins her beauty with war-paint. This self-imposed vanity of Woman is artifice. So much, so much now I hate, how I hate the superficial. I love her and how I hate her for it. I hate myself for hating her and I hate myself as much - for being as much a fake. I am civilized and human, I am cosmetic. And she is as cosmetic as her superficial skin. What manner of God made us such contradictions, such hypocrites? What manner of Man permitted them, and tolerates them? The civilized human being. Why must we pretend and pretend to love each other for it? Why must we pretend and privately despise each other for it? We are naturally ambiguous and deceitful. We are civilized human beings.

I catch sight of her reflection, she catches my gaze. For a moment she sees the horror in my face, a glimpse of the inner devil of my true self. I look away, feigning ignorance. I pretend. I never want to hurt her, never want to hurt anyone, never have. But then within moments she begins to cry. I wonder at the cause of her sudden sorrow, but deep down I know. It’s imprinted in my soul. We cannot always hide that face, scrub or dress it how we may. I hold her. She sobs. She hates me for it, though she loves me. The paint streams down her face like a crest-fallen clown, and in that face I am reflected. 

“Don’t cry. How beautiful you looked this morning…”

It’s a beautiful thing, a moment.

How ugly is the colour of tears.

© 2015 Devons

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My God, my soul has come alive. Bravo.

Posted 1 Year Ago

A re-visit, to what is a quite brilliantly penned truth.


Posted 2 Years Ago

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Dear Lord. This is absolutely one of the greatest pieces I have ever read. Such passion, such beauty. And all captured with eloquent words, but not too fancy to the point where it seems like you're trying too hard to sound smart. You put it simply and you did a wonderful job of doing so. I love love love this piece. Thank you for sharing. I look forward to reading more from you.

Posted 2 Years Ago


2 Years Ago

It's difficult to know what to say when someone so greatly appreciates what you have done - except t.. read more
I really don't know what to say. He seems like such a tortured soul, not seeing the pure beauty and goodness in her. He chooses to see the darkness and that's where his world is. I feel like he doesn't love himself or is capable of loving her. It's very intense and it's sort of a frightening place he's in with the Devil. I know I'm personalizing this just too, too much. It's written very well and it shed's light on the feelings of darkness. Bravo~......Kyam

Posted 2 Years Ago

An awesome story :) i just love it. I will add this to my favorites, and send out read requests, like i promised. Keep writing :)

Posted 2 Years Ago


2 Years Ago

Cannot tell you how glad that makes me. And honoured, thank you!
Dani The Unreviewed

2 Years Ago

You are welcome :)
This is an interesting piece. I see gentle, compassionate love and then in his mind's eye I see a werewolf, cold and hungry. This is passionate, and nicely written. I like the way you wove in the line, "It's a beautiful thing, a moment."

Posted 2 Years Ago


2 Years Ago

In a short sentence you have caught the essence of this piece. Thank you. It's pleasing when people .. read more
Even the deepest of love cannot disassociate us from millions of years of evolution. Instinct, the genetically programmed urge to mate and propagate will, in both the sexes, ever reigns supreme.

At almost forty and still single, I confess to finding love, (a far more complicated chemistry than lust,) both elusive and a pleasant bonus when it happens along. But I have never imagined man as a despoiler, rather, one half of the whole; and just as the female of the species, simply the creation of a higher hand.

An incredibly well written piece. Beccy.

PS. Your choice of the word artifice is spot on. I hardly ever bother with make up.

Posted 2 Years Ago


2 Years Ago

Thank you very much indeed for your intelligent words.
You know, I can't imagine Eve wearing.. read more

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16 Reviews
Shelved in 5 Libraries
Added on June 4, 2012
Last Updated on July 21, 2015
Tags: sex, lust, post-coital depression



South West, United Kingdom

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