‘ tell me again, was it history, ’     this, this particular contour of perdition's incendiary wick, blackening the tips of foolhardy, flame starved flesh with the beginnings of smoke and blister. a warning unheeded as he hooks every pillow, down feather and kerosene, of every finger into the meat of her cheeks for a brief moment too long : just to fucking feel it, — this, atemporal liminality, cupped within palm and slipping like hourglass sand through the gaps in fingers, ‘ or was it affliction that makes bad habit of repeating itself ? ’     both ? because he's hungry, open mouthed and hungry, fishing, finger in the blood clot, again, and again, and again, for something still not known by name, ‘ i just wanted to see it, iris, ’ this. again, and again, and again. history and affliction buried in, burning in erosive gaze against erosive gaze. buzzing and devoured, ‘ you. that look, ’ like bevelled scar tissue against the pink flesh under eyelid, spreading like fucking disease through spools of pink matter, ‘ just like i remembered, ’ like toothache. like cold sweats. like acetaminophen and codeine, a rasp of relief without remedy nor end. and he's fucking grinning. reveling in the sugar and ache wedged into the ivory — into the neural rot. still there, still throbbing.

there’s an ache that roots itself in plain sight, cruel and tender. always cruel. it hurts. it hurts. and it always does, iris. so she’ll search for something more. something else. his lips. it burns. he leans. it burns. some form of suffocated laughter. again. and again. and again. ‘ don’t fucking do that. ’ hues memorizing every notion. every falter. every pronunciation of billowed syllables. his mouth. the way he looked at her. the muttered, inaudible devastation. ‘ don’t. ’ a half - hearted slack against his stature. a throaty, fleeting breath. of bared teeth, slaughtered and fucking digested.

          ‘ you're not rid of me, no, i'm still in there, under there — still circling your fucking drain with all that disgust, shame, nostalgia. ’

          ‘ it's not petulance, it's a promise. if you're aching to play that hand, to call my bluff — be my fucking guest. ’

          ‘ is this not how you wanted me ? empty. all yours to finish off, all yours to make whole ? ’

          ‘ you glutton, ’ it's seethed, fucking spat, against enameled backside of teeth bared into prey's yielding grin — as if he, himself hadn't been gorging everything, heart, throat, blood - swollen entrails on patinated spoonfuls of misery and morphine fed from that bespoke hand ensnaring the jut of lilted chin within the claws, within the cage of her, ‘ you should be careful with that, ’ fingertips ghost up the length of her arm, assessing each erroneous pulsation beneath desperate touch, divining that cacophony of veins knotted into an entanglement not unfamiliar to this tableau : his head a hair's breadth away from that cyanide stone pit of her chest, his gaze cutting up like a bad dog in the midst of panting out a plea for penance, ‘ wanting more, ’ he sits, stays a moment longer before wrenching the tender meat of buccal flesh from her grip — like he wants her to leave a mark, like he wants it to fucking hurt — to rise into a straightened stance, ‘ it's a losing game. ’ it's a loser's game, and he's playing. always fucking playing on bent and ravaged knee for her scraps, her gaze. her, always her. ‘ just tell me. tell me what you want. i'll say it, ’ and mean it. ‘ i'll do it. ’ anything she'd ask.

sentiment  arouses  a  delighted  smile  onto  her  lips,  her chin  tilted  to  peer  down  at  him,  her  eyes filled  with  ..  adoration  ?  desire  ?  love  ?  she  has  him  right  where  she  wants  him — beneath her —  and  yet,  she  still  wants  more.  “ now,  macaulay —  if  that’s  what you consider an apology .. ”  tongue flicks against the roof of her mouth to produce a soft ‘ tsk ’ before she grasps  his  chin  in  a  strong  grip,  securing  his  gaze,  “ try  again. ”

          an empty ‘ okay then, ’ peals atonal as crystalline rim wailing a nauseating ode to burial and prayer beneath the tensioned bow of her index finger : around, and around, and around again, until halting at the very beginning of a grotesque screech along the glass — ‘ leave, ’ like it's fucking easy, like she wouldn't be groveling at the altar of him, pleading a pitiful lament : i want you so much, i need you so much, ‘ if you're so good, ’ lethargy - laden gaze lifts from that swill of water arresting the brunt of her attention, pearly and glazed and vacant. ‘ leave, ’ like one palm hadn’t outstretched like a fetter across the door frame, tearing the jut of moulding into tender flesh.

open to : m / f / nb

“ look, just stop trying to save me, okay ? i told you — i’m good. ”

𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘤𝘶𝘱, 𝖺 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗋 .