freedom hangs like heaven; etro

[sleaze]

I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife What the mare – Elysteria – had taught him was that he was dangerous. Dangerous the way natural disasters are – dangerous without intent or knowledge, but dangerous nonetheless. (I only wanted to fly, he told himself, remembering the brief moment of joy, of light, before he – they – came tumbling down.) He is dangerous because he can walk into their mind as if through an open door, he can work their bodies as puppets, chasing their memories of joy and happiness, and he can destroy them in the process. But not her, not Etro – she melts the possession, leaves him wholly himself. She is a fortress, impenetrable, and he kneels at her walls with rapture. She touches him like a benediction, the quietness swelling softly as his mind steadies, the motion quelled. She is a hand stopping the rocking horse. She is quiet and softness and she lays her cheek against him, a pressure he leans softly into as he touches his muzzle to her neck, for just a moment, to make sure she’s real. “I’ve missed you too,” he says, and then he confessing before he can stop himself, “I hurt someone. I didn’t mean to. I was in her head and then…” He trails off, words clotted in his throat, remembering her – remembering falling. sleaze cancer x garbage