I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
Fitting, then, that what he finds most magic is none of it at all. He is a boy conceived in magic, a boy granted with a power he has no want for, and to him, what is the most magic of all is nothing. Is quiet, a stillness of the mind where there was not one before.
Before Etro, he could not have articulated this – would not have known that what he was seeking was not-magic, was, in fact, the erasure thereof.
(He’s never been a particularly bright boy.)
But now she gives him the quiet, she gives him the words.
Yet she does not see the beauty of it – to her, it is a curse, a stripping of things. She is not inside his mind, she is not there to bear witness to how the cyclone in his mind stills in her presence.
Maybe it’s not magic, but it’s enough, for him.
He hates the way her voice breaks over the words, wants to say something to convince her otherwise but he is not articulate in the way he needs to be.
She leans against him and he cherishes the feel of her. She asks the question: what now?
He doesn’t know. He’s never known.
“I don’t have a home,” he says, “but it feels like home, sometimes, with you.”
sleaze
cancer x garbage
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