photicaphotic
It was amazing how such a small phrase, a tiny arrangement of letters and vowels, could change her life in every possible way. She'd woken up on the floor of a basement with a gag in her mouth, and for an instant, she'd thought she was still dreaming. Until the firm bones of knuckles crashed into her cheek and the pain blinded her. Then, she knew she was awake and there was no going back.
both between and outside,
our breath hangs in the back of our throats -
caught like fire.
whispered words could save
us both.
The wound was still fresh. It still pulsated beneath her skin like a devilish ghost heartbeat. The agony of it hid beneath her tongue and changed the words that came from between her lips.
Claim. A simple word: straight-forward, assertive. Domineering. Like he was, even the day she met him. His spine was made of steel, and his body was built to match. When he smiled at her she was struck with an electric bolt that jolted her weak and bruised heart back to life. He'd laid his claim in that moment, and despite how fiercely he could infuriate her, she couldn't shake him.
Carbon. That's what her entire life came down to, in the end. She spent her youth gallivanting the earth, plunging her unwanted existence deep into the bowels of the planet, digging in long after she should have gone home.
He was full of substances; faint nuances in taste and effects. He always held her at arms lenth. The darkness fell around him like a cowl, as natural and easy as breathing.
It all started with a key; the curves of the designed head twisted and ancient, wrought metal stained black with age and dirt. It felt heavy in her palm, and despite the sweltering West-coast heat, it held a chill that seeped into the pattern of her flesh.
*Principle. It was the principle of the matter, he said. He was always talking, whether she listened or not he blathered on in the background, his voice a sterile drone. In time she’d grown numb to it, but now and then she heard his voice in her head. A fractured whisper, faint static crackling and sparking.
It was the principal of the matter, he said. He was always talking, whether she listened or not he blathered on in the background, his voice a sterile drone. In time she'd grown numb to it, but now and then she heard his voice in her head. A fractured whisper, faint static crackling and sparking.
It's been raining in my head for weeks and this ennui will not be dismissed.
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