06-08-2015, 04:19 PM
bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. She was an obsession, wasn’t she? They all are, those girls you think you love, but you love them like a wrecking ball, like a natural disaster, you engulf and take and torment. And maybe you think it’s love, whatever transpires (you remember the arch of the swan-white girl’s neck, and the way Yael’s accent made her name sound like a spell). You obsess and pant and breathe over these women until they see you for what you are, until the guts of it are out, exposed, the madness coating the air like nerve gas. And then they leave, but you can’t let them leave, because obsession isn’t love, none of it’s love. If you love something, let it go. If you’re obsessed with something, stop it from going. It’s a unique pleasure, bringing them in. She is not graceful, my corpse masterpiece, but she possesses a certain animal cunning, a knowledge of when to sink the claws in. And the moment is sweet every time, them pliant against her, warm as anything she’s ever know, her wax-cool but possessing their heat, their want. She is no scholar and surely the mare will see it soon enough, that behind those glistening eyes there is no knowledge, only whimsy and slaughter, and what will she do then? Will she run, or press closer? Yes, acquiesces the mare, yes, I am yours. Of course she is. Of course. For this moment, she is my corpse queen’s pet, her prize, her trophy to be polished and admired (and ah, she is so warm). “Tell me, pet,” she says, “have you ever killed anyone?” how original a sin. |