A/N: Please go read this on my tumblr account (bodennis) to get the full effect. (There's formatting there that I can't do here.)
She comes in on her own. She looks divine in nature compared to her surroundings, though they have all since lost any divinity they may have possessed. She never did.
She's warm when she climbs into bed next to you, her mouth is wet and hot when she kisses the top of her head. The feeling echoes in your chest, bouncing off your ribs, playing a dulcet, hollow tune. The curve of her body is inviting, and you fit as tight as those Tory Burches she once told you about, the ones she needed to butter up her heels to slip off. She stops talking. But you can hear her all the same. Warmth blooms in the hollow of your chest, if only for an instant. Divine, she is. Divine, she must be. Divine, you are not.
Something about her lights up the room. Before it was dark, grey, cold – perhaps you're imagining things. Or there actually are things in the shadows playing tricks on your mind. But she makes them go away, those things crawling in the shadows just waiting for you to finally let them in. Proof of her divinity. Proof of nothing, since they aren't really anyway. They are.
The silence shatters at her whim – she's the master of everything, but you knew that, you always did. The way she could sway anyone with her words, with her looks. The way she could sway you. She's destined for greatness, and here you are, a husk of a girl laying prostrate to her in your room. She sees you, but what could someone like her possibly see in you? There's nothing left in you to see. Her benevolence is toxic. It can't help. It won't help. Nothing will help. Maybe she's not the master of everything after all.
Her eyes are special. They always have been. The first time she looked at you and stole your breath away and every time since, you feel like you're falling. You exist in a part of her brain, and being acutely aware of that is comforting but unnerving. She sees you. She's always seen you. The day she stops seeing you is the day you stop existing, and the idea is relieving and terrifying.
The bed sinks under her weight. You barely make an indent on it at all. She's left an indent on you. The silence is thick and heavy and it bears mentioning, but that would ruin it, now wouldn't it? You have no words for her anyway – you know she has them all, stolen them from you and from others. Without words, you're powerless, but you like that, now don't you?
The bed sinks under her weight. You barely make an indent on it at all. She's left an indent on you. The silence is thick and heavy and it bears mentioning, but that would ruin it, now wouldn't it? You have no words for her anyway – you know she has them all, stolen them from you and from others. Without words, you're powerless, but you like that, now don't you?
Her eyes are special. They always have been. The first time she looked at you and stole your breath away and every time since, you feel like you're falling. You exist in a part of her brain, and being acutely aware of that is comforting but unnerving. She sees you. She's always seen you. The day she stops seeing you is the day you stop existing, and the idea is relieving and terrifying.
The silence shatters at her whim – she's the master of everything, but you knew that, you always did. The way she could sway anyone with her words, with her looks. The way she could sway you. She's destined for greatness, and here you are, a husk of a girl laying prostrate to her in your room. She sees you, but what could someone like her possibly see in you? There's nothing left in you to see. Her benevolence is toxic. It can't help. It won't help. Nothing will help. Maybe she's not the master of everything after all.
Something about her lights up the room. Before it was dark, grey, cold – perhaps you're imagining things. Or there actually are things in the shadows playing tricks on your mind. But she makes them go away, those things crawling in the shadows just waiting for you to finally let them in. Proof of her divinity. Proof of nothing, since they aren't really anyway. They are.
She's warm when she climbs into bed next to you, her mouth is wet and hot when she kisses the top of her head, and the feeling echoes in your chest, bouncing off your ribs, playing a dulcet, hollow tune. The curve of her body is inviting, and you fit as tight as those ancient Incan bricks she once told you about, that need no mortar to hold them together. She stops talking. But you can hear her all the same. Warmth blooms in the hollow of your chest, if only for an instant. Divine, she is. Divine, she must be. Divine, you are not.
She comes in on her own. She looks divine in nature compared to her surroundings, though they have all since lost any divinity they may have possessed. She never did.