A/N: Once again, TW for eating disorders.

She breathes in every wisp of smoke he sighs, just to feel closer to him. He drags her along through the barren wasteland of his heart with his pretty words and his declarations of devotion and feeling.

If he was as devoted to her as he claims, he would be with her when she tries to cleanse herself of the weight holding her down every night. She feels more of a connection with the toilet bowl that she spends so much time staring into than with him and his dark eyes and wild words.

Sometimes she likes it when he hits her because pain makes her feel more alive than she does the rest of the time. When he slams her across the room, she always turns away to laugh. He always thinks he's made her cry and goes on.

He is a tidal wave, toppling all the corporate skyscrapers inside of her and leaving only wreckage and saltwater. She has to get all that saltwater out of her somehow, so she cries it out into his chest.

She wakes up screaming every night because she dreams of him leaving her.

It's not that she loves him. She's never been sure if she loves him. She figures she has to.

She has to stay with him because he makes her feel perfect. He makes her feel alive and whole and beautiful. His finger gentle down her back makes her feel loved, his kiss feels like he's desperately trying to vacuum sadness out of her soul and his fuck makes her feel like a goddess.

He completes her, whether she likes it or not. She looks in the mirror and sees more of him each day. She sees his hungry eyes and his wicked smile. She sees his carefully hidden vulnerability ripped out of its secret drawer and thrown onto the floor, naked and screaming.

But maybe that's her own fragility making its appearance.

Living with him is a hurricane and a tornado and a flood and every kind of natural disaster that has ever ripped through the heartlands.

But she weathers the storm for the calm that lingers afterwards. After the shouting there's always the blood-sticky moments lying in bed, his hands tracing her and their angry words hanging languid in the air above them.

I love you, she'll say, in those moments. All he ever says is don't say that.

They're an endless cycle. She starves herself, he sits chainsmoking and never lifting a finger to stop her. She tells him she loves him, and he dismisses it like it never happened. She'll tell him he's doing something wrong, and he yells at her and hits her.

He reminds her of cinnamon because in small quantities he would be the perfect lover with just enough spice to pleasantly surprise you, but in large amounts, you have to get him away.

So that's what she calls him. He's her cinnamon.

A/N: Again, all feedback is appreciated.