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somewhere between watching him peel off the dirty bandaid and picking strands of dust out of the half-dried blistering wound underneath, he feels sick, gut and throat. the travesty of all their dreams is here.
sometimes it echoes in k's head. "composure is my greatest skill." wonders if it's true. wonders what bad habits j had when the skill was still a weakness; lips chewed swollen and pink, bitten fingers that turned white in the shower. restless sighs in the dark and feet combing through cold sheets and hands in places. midnights that k feels uneasy imagining. wonders how much of j they really know, now.
him in that sleek gray suit with his rings clinking on cocktails speaking of all the other unspeakable things new money does in a way that makes him want to pull him down through the rungs and see the bright blue billiard chalk dusty in the ridges of his fingerprint, to lock eyes as the eight ball sinks into the corner pocket, to hate the bastard and win the game.
because nothing gets her off like hands and knees on the ground and most especially when it's someone as infuriatingly sweet as this one, with that cupid's bow on her lips and cupid's arrow on her tongue.
don't you hate that shit. trying to step out and then you get roped back in. you could quit but then you get lonely. no winning. twenty-first century, no such thing here. just cold blue screens and cold hard numbers. acting like you don't care (i know you care).
it's got you locked in place, that sickly mutation of your soul, got you stuck sticking feet sunk into muddy souls where all things green grow from and yet it is nothing but dirt and what you reap depends first on what you sow. do like those fortune cookies and white-teeth authors say, love, and water me. or, be barren and let your feet float free, rootless, hurtless, like that poor baby in the elevator heading to the 15th floor whose hand i will never let go of. the boy's got you tight as thread between thread and then he tells you everything needs a way out.
you know where the exit is. you are tired because you know exactly where it is and you say please please please and still you end up like this, selfish and pathetic and clawing for a reason to stay in.
"you got another think coming," t says and looks him in the eye. how one could be so defiant with such a soft girly tongue, ah. but c has other things to think about.
expression fierce like eagle talons over beds of lavender, that wild beauty of nature. t is something like a painting. something to look at from afar. not a scene to step into.
c grins.
thinking about what you've become and how you never thought you'd be here. learning you are made of red. painting skin, painting walls. fingerprints. watching the rest travel in packs. you become an animal alone. the echo of your past howls worn and tattered in your human eardrums, the wild streak marring your heartless organized structure, a cave made for thousands so empty it presses your skull in.
you're pretty as drugs, with your hair curled and your eyes cold as ice. there's nothing in a name here. they've fucked us empty and left us to die; it's only you and me, now.
let's go home, pretty girl. let's go home.
the mascara hurts on her eyelashes, hard like dry bare branches in the dead empty air before winter. she remembers when kohl was smudged and soft and sexy, she remembers cold night air on her bare thighs and glitter and when She was heavy and warm on her arm. her eyes feel dry and foreign. like Her, flighty and yet so low low low beneath the earth, wherever She lives, somewhere across the sea.
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