[ To us to us to us. Agreement. Adulation. The partner she’s always needed but never had. Balancing her high energy with his low menace, her outbursts with his steadfastness. The splay of his fingers in the slats of her dress, sinewy, only calloused where he holds his pen. More obviously rough where she feigns softness. Maybe he couldn’t see it before, but surely he sees it now: That unlike the flimsy butterflies in the club who pretend to be tough, to be dangerous, she’s the real deal. He made sure of it.
For the first time, she wants to tell him everything she did. That she killed half the damn council. That she sent their toxic gas back the fuck up where it came from. It wasn’t on purpose, really, but it still matters. She didn’t let it die with him. But he says, I’ll always be good and her thoughts scatter like ash. How long is always, for a dead man? What’s good to monsters like them? One hundred childish questions in her mind, plaguing her heart, and she voices none of them, following the pull of his hand to the sofa.
Instead, she lilts— ]
You think I mind when you’re bad?
[ when he fights for control, for her, that means she’s worth the trouble. The shouting, the attention, the troll of a babysitter (Sorry, Sevika). She fights for him, too, even when it isn’t necessary — as if she has control of any of it, like the impulse now, to push him to the cushions and climb atop his lap. Thought, then done, in a violet blur. ]
S’not like I know how to be good.
[ All she knows is this, the crush of their mouths, the drag of her nails on his throat. She can only be sweet for so long, at least with him. ]
no subject
For the first time, she wants to tell him everything she did. That she killed half the damn council. That she sent their toxic gas back the fuck up where it came from. It wasn’t on purpose, really, but it still matters. She didn’t let it die with him. But he says, I’ll always be good and her thoughts scatter like ash. How long is always, for a dead man? What’s good to monsters like them? One hundred childish questions in her mind, plaguing her heart, and she voices none of them, following the pull of his hand to the sofa.
Instead, she lilts— ]
You think I mind when you’re bad?
[ when he fights for control, for her, that means she’s worth the trouble. The shouting, the attention, the troll of a babysitter (Sorry, Sevika). She fights for him, too, even when it isn’t necessary — as if she has control of any of it, like the impulse now, to push him to the cushions and climb atop his lap. Thought, then done, in a violet blur. ]
S’not like I know how to be good.
[ All she knows is this, the crush of their mouths, the drag of her nails on his throat. She can only be sweet for so long, at least with him. ]