There's a song in your lung and a dream in your eye. (Perse)

[perse]

i wanted pomegranates— i wanted darkness— i wanted him. The touches are strange, a care woven into them that she is unsure of, that disquiets her in a way she cannot articulate. His touches had always been so wrought with purpose, with a goal of unmaking her, taking her, destroying her. And the loved the purposes He wielded, loved submitting to them, giving to Him everything she could. This is different, an idle touch, exploratory. She cannot sense any end goal within it, nor does she have her own – she wanted only to know what the fractured skin felt like, yet her muzzle remains against Joscelin, because she likes the warmth, likes the strange intimacy it brings about. Do you love Him, asks Joscelin, the words murmured across silver skin, and it is a strange and laughable question. Of course she loves Him, her master, her dark god – she is His, so she must love him, surely? (She loves the things He does, the ways He takes her apart, glues her back.) “I must,” she says, and this answer surprises even her – why not a resounding yes, a proclamation, a sonnet for their love? (Because He does not love her – she is a toy, and she loves being a toy, loves being His, but He does not love her. Her world revolves around Him and He does not love her.) p e r s e ------------------------------cordis x spyndle