And what?
Your wild, slightly damp hair. The smudges of colour under your eyes, makeup that didn't wash away like the oil on his fingers. The pillow on the floor. Puffs of salty breath, hot and cooing. Sour, too. Just slightly sour, the wasted flavours of a day consumed. That venereal confusion of flushed heat expediting the slow but eager death of cold. Cold, with its pursed lips and black eyes. You. Your round face shining, doleful and humble(d) and pink.
That soft ache, that soreness. Smug and hateful, petty, golden. You don't want to touch it. To wash it away, to feel it drain out of you and slither (and glisten) down black, slimy pipes. You want to step away from the mirror, away from her curious eyes, her unspoken questions, her exhilaration. Her small death. (That wasn't you on the floor?)
The pooled blood, rushing and raging, like cats with no eyes and no tongues.
Purple and red. Sickly gray.
Now what?
Your wild, slightly damp hair. The smudges of colour under your eyes, makeup that didn't wash away like the oil on his fingers. The pillow on the floor. Puffs of salty breath, hot and cooing. Sour, too. Just slightly sour, the wasted flavours of a day consumed. That venereal confusion of flushed heat expediting the slow but eager death of cold. Cold, with its pursed lips and black eyes. You. Your round face shining, doleful and humble(d) and pink.
That soft ache, that soreness. Smug and hateful, petty, golden. You don't want to touch it. To wash it away, to feel it drain out of you and slither (and glisten) down black, slimy pipes. You want to step away from the mirror, away from her curious eyes, her unspoken questions, her exhilaration. Her small death. (That wasn't you on the floor?)
The pooled blood, rushing and raging, like cats with no eyes and no tongues.
Purple and red. Sickly gray.
Now what?
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