12-20-2015, 05:45 PM
KINGSLAY
‘How deep does it burn?’
To the bones. To the marrow. To the black void that lies neatly in between the ribs where his heart should live, where instead a wild-thing stirs, curling and uncurling sharpened claws that flash like steel. It burns, until sweat beads and falls from their haunches like rain. It burns, until small fires sprout on the branches of even the dampest saplings in their vicinity. It burns, until the air feels so heavy it chokes.
It could be over so quickly.
He could pour her out like rain until the forest was wet and red beneath the blackness. He could open her up and spill her yellowed fat and innards in the earth, like some twisted homage to his childhood. He could add the crack of bones to the sounds of chaos, and it would be done. It would be done, but it isn’t what he likes. It isn’t what he hunger for, why his tongue licks at the edges of his lips. It isn’t what tangles his insides with knots of expectancy.
Sometimes the slow burn is better.
He spills hot breath across the nape of her neck, because she’s curled beside him now too close for safety while he wonders about the colour of her bones.
‘Would it hurt?’ She muses.
It would. It would feel like breathing flames into your lungs, like burning from the inside out. It would cauterize the blood in her veins. It would boil her alive. So, when she breathes the question the answer waits ready on his tongue: “Yes.”
And then she breathes a name when she isn’t supposed to, breathes it out between her lips and the syllables are as electric as the lightning. She is meant to run. She is meant to jolt forward so he can follow in her shadows, close enough that she can feel the heat of his breath and far enough that a trace of hope still lights up her eyes.
But she doesn’t.
She doesn’t move, so he doesn’t either.
She doesn’t move, but he still thinks about the colours hidden underneath her skin.
To the bones. To the marrow. To the black void that lies neatly in between the ribs where his heart should live, where instead a wild-thing stirs, curling and uncurling sharpened claws that flash like steel. It burns, until sweat beads and falls from their haunches like rain. It burns, until small fires sprout on the branches of even the dampest saplings in their vicinity. It burns, until the air feels so heavy it chokes.
It could be over so quickly.
He could pour her out like rain until the forest was wet and red beneath the blackness. He could open her up and spill her yellowed fat and innards in the earth, like some twisted homage to his childhood. He could add the crack of bones to the sounds of chaos, and it would be done. It would be done, but it isn’t what he likes. It isn’t what he hunger for, why his tongue licks at the edges of his lips. It isn’t what tangles his insides with knots of expectancy.
Sometimes the slow burn is better.
He spills hot breath across the nape of her neck, because she’s curled beside him now too close for safety while he wonders about the colour of her bones.
‘Would it hurt?’ She muses.
It would. It would feel like breathing flames into your lungs, like burning from the inside out. It would cauterize the blood in her veins. It would boil her alive. So, when she breathes the question the answer waits ready on his tongue: “Yes.”
And then she breathes a name when she isn’t supposed to, breathes it out between her lips and the syllables are as electric as the lightning. She is meant to run. She is meant to jolt forward so he can follow in her shadows, close enough that she can feel the heat of his breath and far enough that a trace of hope still lights up her eyes.
But she doesn’t.
She doesn’t move, so he doesn’t either.
She doesn’t move, but he still thinks about the colours hidden underneath her skin.
And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.