theamusedlesbian
You can't deal with these tricks anymore.
Sleight of hand, magic--bunny ears sticking out of black top hats, rainbow scarves pulled from inside coat sleeves.
Card dealers, those who hit until you reach blackjack, the people who convince you to keep going until you can't stop anymore, to keep paying money to drown your sorrows in games of money and high stakes.
You can't deal with these tricks anymore, and it's this that finally convinces you to leave.
Third place is always the worst, you think.
First is best--you've known that, been taught that since you were a little girl, settle for nothing less--second is only the biggest loser. You know that, too. It's been ingrained into you, imprinted on your brain, branded searing hot.
But third, not the best of the losers, not the victor in any sense of the word. Yet, there's still a reward; bronze, nothing to be proud of. Not ever anything to be proud of.
You feel your heart speed, up, doubled in refrains of blood and aching, sweating, cracking in bones crumbling when you think of him.
It's not his name, nor his face--it's his presence, close in the back of your mind's eye, softly when you're in the shower, when you're trying to sleep; he creeps up into your brain, makes a nest there, stays there until you've rid every trace of him from the lines deep under your skin (splinter).
You concentrated hard as you counted, one two, one two—I watched you in the darkness from the candlelight burning dimly in the low-lit room where we’d first met, where we’d first done it all—you were a mystery, a paradox; you captured my love and sealed it inside your jar of things for me to perish there, breathless, studying you softly with whispers and aching bones, gentle fragments.
He covers his mouth immediately after he says it, not willing to believe that he actually let it slip that way.
"I mean--" he starts to say, but stops short when he sees the look on the other man's face.
Understanding, fragility, awe--but most prominently, love.
Two cars come zooming down the freeway, one after the other, black chasing blue in a nasty pursuit of good versus evil.
The police lights are whining, singing 'whee! whee!' and flashing redwhiteblue around and around and around in your eyes, and you watch the hasty escape with anticipation, heartbeat thrumming in your chest.
She dips the quill in the ink, black plume sticking upright. She puts the quill against the paper. She writes.
She doesn't stop until she feels like she's poured her soul onto the page--until every last bit, every succulent drop of desperation has left her body in a whoosh of emotion.
She looks up at the glass-stained window, the amalgamation of colors swirling in geometric patterns and casting shadows around her, wonder in her eyes.
A noise sounds from behind her, and she startles from the beauty, comes back to reality.
Blaring, blazing--a cacophony of sound in your ears and you recognize it immediately.
Trumpets.
They make your eardrums bleed, make your heart race--you hadn't been prepared for this, hadn't been prepared for the memories that this sound would unknowingly bring back.
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