Why of course the shape remains somewhere, folded in my brain; things can’t be forgotten when so often the refrain features choruses of whispers, curse her softened little whimpers – so no, I mean I couldn’t not admit that if it came again I’d weakly hold out for a moment, just to show there’s some control within my ever twitching frame. I blame myself as much as you, babe – blame the lovely shape you made in the folds of bundled blankets when the blinds shut out the day. Doomed is often sexiest, if nothing else it makes for nice goodbyes and lovely tries at honestly intentioned lies – and you were mine for three such times and now my lord may strike me blind because I’ve seen the one thing I needed to:

Macaria, goddess of the blessed death, with the wind from the west in her swelling breast. On her knees, still pleas that she likes me best, while the drips from my leaves drop to make her wet.


~ by perfectionatrix on February 7, 2012.

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