01-24-2016, 02:20 AM
KINGSLAY
It still sounds like music.
Because the rain is constant. It’s relentless, and it’s violent, and it pours around them and fills the spaces between their bodies, and their breaths, and their syllables. It coaxes steam and smoke from the fissures in his black almost-flesh, and the only sound gaudier than that is the low breath of thunder that rumbles overhead. And their bodies are writhing; magnets, yes, but with the same polarity – two bowed heads, and two sets of flashing teeth. They squirm like dying animals in these self-made forest trenches where gluttonous mud sucks at their legs and surges of electricity, white-hot, split the sky into halves and rattle the hunger even deeper into the marrow of his bones.
“Your name?” She asks – wants, needs.
He doesn’t need anything more than the flavor of her blood on his tongue, and the melody of her guttural cries sang against his ears. So, when he answers he will not be obliging. He won’t recognize the way her voice curls as though it’s slick with sweat. He will only think about her skin peeled back and the image will echo in the blackest fractures of his eyes.
And he’ll move forward to press his teeth against the soft patch of skin behind her ears. “You didn’t listen well enough,” he will chide, and as the corners of his lips quiver the will rain find access and wet his tongue, and it won’t be enough to quench a thirst like his.
And if she leans in it will be a mistake.
Because the rain is constant. It’s relentless, and it’s violent, and it pours around them and fills the spaces between their bodies, and their breaths, and their syllables. It coaxes steam and smoke from the fissures in his black almost-flesh, and the only sound gaudier than that is the low breath of thunder that rumbles overhead. And their bodies are writhing; magnets, yes, but with the same polarity – two bowed heads, and two sets of flashing teeth. They squirm like dying animals in these self-made forest trenches where gluttonous mud sucks at their legs and surges of electricity, white-hot, split the sky into halves and rattle the hunger even deeper into the marrow of his bones.
“Your name?” She asks – wants, needs.
He doesn’t need anything more than the flavor of her blood on his tongue, and the melody of her guttural cries sang against his ears. So, when he answers he will not be obliging. He won’t recognize the way her voice curls as though it’s slick with sweat. He will only think about her skin peeled back and the image will echo in the blackest fractures of his eyes.
And he’ll move forward to press his teeth against the soft patch of skin behind her ears. “You didn’t listen well enough,” he will chide, and as the corners of his lips quiver the will rain find access and wet his tongue, and it won’t be enough to quench a thirst like his.
And if she leans in it will be a mistake.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.