He

Very few things are as controlling as Him. He is the cause of my apologies. He is the reason i dread the actions that I feel obligated to commit. He is the reason for many fears. He.
His body.
Smooth, toned muscle glimmers with strength and commanding power, bulging underneath the shirt, flexing occasionally. In debate he stands closer, the urge to cower consumes me, his arm touches mine. I quiver as a puppy before its master, a leaf controlled by nature alone and helpless. He waits till we are alone, or help is too far away to assist me in my plight. He is taller, stronger, better than I am, and He alone can dominate me. His agile, toned body blocks the door, trapping me where I do not wish to be. Confusion.
His eyes.
They shine with untold fury and rage, glowering with millions of hell’s embers. I melt, helpless against their gaze and power. They seem to read every emotion, thought, and fear inside of my unprotected soul and change to gain the highest advantage. Slow sad emotion, eyes are wide with hurt and pain, they almost seem to cry out in pity, desperate for comfort. I know that is not what they resemble, yet I crumble, as always, succumbing to his needs, his wants. I am the puppet; he is the puppeteer, moving my strings to fulfill his desires and pleasures. Terror.
His voice.
Smooth rolling thunder, filled with unadulterated loathing, mistrust, untold strength. It commands the heavens and controls the hells, it is powerful, mighty, and again I find myself bowing to its wishes. I plead in my own small, uncontrolled voice, thousands of apologies rolling off an inexperienced tongue from a dry and terrified throat. I look to those eyes with my own, afraid to meet them in their rage and fury. His voice changes again, smooth thick honey dripping and coating my body and mind. I melt in it again for he means no harm. He is the protector, the savior, he is the one I should listen to, and he deserves the power for he controls the knowledge. He is and always will be. Trusting.
His hands.
I feel them still, on my shoulder, my head. They are the warning, flashing lights behind my car, screaming teacher, and scolding parent, patient friend, strict instructor, and angry spouse. A shoulder pat, I have done right, I have pleased him and he will not punish. A hand upon the head, I have done well, it is a reward I am in the right once more and deserve to feel hope. The arm or hand, I am wrong, should apologize immediately. The leg, I have sympathy momentarily, he will allow such attention to be directed at my entity. They are my scale, how right or wrong I am that day. They determine how I will feel at the end of the day. They simply dictate my life. Dictatorship.
His friendship.
An irreducible complexity of life, emotion, and well-being by which I can learn to make or break my day. He has become the mortal blood for my vampirism of an existence, the medication to keep my heart steady and mind at ease, the notebook I dare not lose. He is the closest friend at the farthest lengths, the dearest love in dire hatred, the oxygen I wish I could resist, the knife which brings me food, the water which grants me life. He simply is. Through all of his trials and persecutions I would not trade the world, for he is my Omicidio, my love, hope, and only desire. He is forever. Affection.