if the heavens ever did speak
I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
He is son of a magician, son of ill magic (two stallions procreating when nature should have forbade it, making him, birthing him), yet he was born normal. A black boy, a plain boy. He never met his magician father (their affair had soured before Sleaze was brought to term) and so he was raised by another plain black stallion. It had been quiet and simple and they had prayed there, half-formed things that felt right. He’d been devout, Before, had prayed so often his knees were worn bare.
(Still are, but now, he does not pray. There is only a snippet that drifts through his mind, gliding like a shark through water; yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.)
Her kind words make his knees weak – the understanding, the touch, the gentleness. The quiet. He wants to sob against her, confess his sins and the sins of others, the ones he collects inadvertently, the flotsam and jetsam of their minds.
But there is no time, because then she says it - perhaps your mind can be your own today - and he remembers the purple, the other lives.
She can do nothing for them, because they are not magic, they are not gifts or curses – surely they are things of madness, swirling howling terrible, these other lives, these images.
There was a girl. There was no girl.
“Not with the purple,” he says before he realizes what he is saying, this nonsense, then, “I’m sorry.”
Not that she knows what he is sorry for, but he is sorry.
sleaze
cancer x garbage
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(reposting this mess as sleaze not me)
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