however bent and badly drawn; malis

[sleaze]

I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife He’s yet to know love in any real sense, anything he’s had has been corrupted – and besides, what he’s had amounts to so little. His father’s orange eyes on him, inscrutable. The woman who’d calmed his mind when it was at its most fitful, stolen away his unwanted power, who he has not seen since. And Malis, too – a winding conversation of a shared madness, and then, nothing else. But she is so memorable to him still. He has so little worth remembering, see. He’ll remember this, though – how she presses against him, warm in the chill of the autumn. How her teeth scrape against his flesh, and maybe it should hurt, but he almost loves it, the sting of his raked flesh, the heat of her breath. If he could, he thinks he would freeze this moment, with her close and tasting skin in her mouth, and he, ready to be felled. He has no such power, of course – and she withdraws, and cold replaces where her mouth had been. “There are things I have wanted,” he says, though his throat is tight. Because this, now, is such a thing – her closeness. Her teeth on his skin. But he does not know how to want, not proper, not without making a mess of himself. He is too cowardly to express it even as it claws across his skin (raking, hot, like her teeth). “But I have never deserved them.” This, then, is the truth – for he is a stupid boy. A stupid, undeserving boy. He should not want. “Are you who you want to be?” he asks, teeth set against saying anything else, anything stupid. She is a stranger, he reminds himself. A stranger who might have once supped on the same madness he did, but she is no longer sick from that feast, not the way he is. She is a stranger, but he still wants her. sleaze cancer x garbage