palms up
she liked girls better. to play, to talk, to laugh. it wasn't her heart that decided this initially, it was her eyes, her cunt, her skin, her salt. they'd been kissed, soured, rumpled and razed.
sex was the opening up of a present, everytime a gift of crisp fuzz and sleeping velvet. legs opening to reveal each time a haze upon the eye, the diaphanous pungency of memory, sheer recall.
later fingers of warmth meet around the skull. and the return is sad, with a surge so deep it washes away the tracks back home. slip, slide, climb, sink. and forget each time that a triangle is three corners rounding in on each other. there is no leaving, the fog has clamps of steel and carries only the anaesthetic of blindness.
so she keeps missing the signs she carved herself. she rises with the tide and rushes against rocks. memory is traded for the fading taste of now. how willingly the trade is made, with childlike villainy the deal struck. if you promise to hide well, i promise never to seek. memory will strain at anything for an imminent morsel of death.
and the now? the moment for which she has erased all possessions, her now is a slip of tissue and muscle, with sticky grabbing hands and shuddering reins. like an eldritch lock with keys of light and shadow, she feels her way in with scrambled senses, an insane voice guides her.
and she knows it's insane because the echoes announce the scream.
sex was the opening up of a present, everytime a gift of crisp fuzz and sleeping velvet. legs opening to reveal each time a haze upon the eye, the diaphanous pungency of memory, sheer recall.
later fingers of warmth meet around the skull. and the return is sad, with a surge so deep it washes away the tracks back home. slip, slide, climb, sink. and forget each time that a triangle is three corners rounding in on each other. there is no leaving, the fog has clamps of steel and carries only the anaesthetic of blindness.
so she keeps missing the signs she carved herself. she rises with the tide and rushes against rocks. memory is traded for the fading taste of now. how willingly the trade is made, with childlike villainy the deal struck. if you promise to hide well, i promise never to seek. memory will strain at anything for an imminent morsel of death.
and the now? the moment for which she has erased all possessions, her now is a slip of tissue and muscle, with sticky grabbing hands and shuddering reins. like an eldritch lock with keys of light and shadow, she feels her way in with scrambled senses, an insane voice guides her.
and she knows it's insane because the echoes announce the scream.
posted by Deepa at 4:59 AM
4 Comments:
lovely, boo. sharp and beautiful.
to escape zero comments is nice, but to escape it with sweet joy to spare is the best. thank you, darling.
A slip of tissue and muscle, a tragicomic slip on an icy surface, a slip of the tongue, a fall, a sprawl, and a landing, just right.
(I really believe that some posts are just too good to be commented upon. A zero is quite often a compliment.)
sissoula: a slip of the tongue indeed. my best friend has the same view on comments, but it's always nice to have them :)
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