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 feels like if she had been there with him he would have felt it, her presence (the way he feels it now, fog on his back). But she knows. She knows there was a girl
(two girls)
and she knows the color is not their own.
He does not recall the memories in any real detail – what drifts through are phases, sensations. A few symbols, terrifying – a clown with a Glasgow smile, a tiger with no face. But they are not sewn together in any kind of coherent way. The memories do not tell a story. They explain nothing except perhaps for why he flirts with madness.
They certainly do not explain why he awoke with the ability to leave his body and fly into others, why he knows things he should not.
But she wasn’t there, not with him. He doesn’t know how he knows this but he does, and it feels as sure as anything.
(Not that that’s saying much.)
“I don’t remember you,” he says. They are speaking to each other but also to themselves.
“I would remember you.” He would remember the indigo, the sense of realness she brings.
Maybe this is just a dream too, she says and he wonders. It feels too vivid, and he recalls the sensations of her muzzle to his skin. That had been real. If nothing else, that had been real.
And the touch comes again, grounding, her chest to his and her neck laid across him. It is intimate in a way he has not been since his father and their meadow-prayers and he is unsure what to do with himself, moving his neck awkwardly across her back and withers.
She asks for names and for a moment he has nothing to tell her, until another memories trickles out from the purple, and he can feel the knife in his belly as the girl writes her name there, marks him. He can feel each letter, carved sharp and careful.
“Nerissa,” he says, tongue feeling swollen in his mouth, dreamlike, then, “Leta.”
The names bring forth other memories – a sensation of drowning, a mossy paddock, clouds painted across his body.
The thought, assured in a way he had never been about anything in his life: she loves us.
“It burned,” he says, numbly, “that’s how I died. She burned everything.”
Even herself, he thinks, though he does not know, will never know for sure.
sleaze
cancer x garbage
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when in doubt remember i love you and you should always post whatever you're questioning
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