Shrift
Shit.
Father has preached the same mantra since the beginning of time. Mother echoes it softly; sometimes I catch her whispering it behind him, her mouth shaping the words into prayers. As for me, I live by it.
Never find yourself in a place you can't get out of.
It's the explanation of claustrophobics, the quip of cowards, and the law of all Malfoys. Ironic, how I can fit them all. I'm all three here, now- should I list my conditions? Let my words draw away the circle of your arms.
Coward and Malfoy are made synonymous by inheritance. We're the mask-wearers, flitting like moths on gossamer leashes, masterful yet mastered in so many meaningless ways. Look me up if you need an elegant scream or the stroke of death.
Feel me shrink back? Claustrophobe by conditioning, the prods of lifestyle and a drilling fear. I go about my daily repetitions of eleven, meant to solidify my mind to fit a snake's skull. Never. Find. Yourself. In. A. Place. You. Can't. Get. Out. Of. Once at breakfast and once before I dream of you.
Look, don't touch. Every caress violates years shuddering on the train, in a cage, sleeping with the curtains of my bed flung open. Just for the freedom. Anything for the freedom, perhaps, but more an outcry for you. I've always left that single escape route open so that you could come in, little exits tucked into my evening coffee and between my hand and the Snitch. Even in the Malfoy prayer. Now and then the words scrunch together and I spend the night picking them apart. Neverfindyourselfinaplaceyoucan'tgetoutof. Always hoping, as I accentuate the pauses, that you would arrive to decipher them.
I pull down barriers. Doors, eyes, smiles, rivalries, love, and the coldness in your curses. The walls between us had to fall, but-
-please.
Contradiction is worse than any façade. You whisper parseltongue across my skin, eyes, mouth and I can only obey. Reconsider? My lips have nowhere to run, and I wonder why it feels so deliciously suffocating to be caught by you.
Come closer. Wander a little as my fears run rampant across our tongues- they won't bite. I'm the one to worry about.
Come closer. Hiss once in pleasure, twice in pain, send an distress cry in bite marks for the best of both. My panic melds into frenzied prayers for escape and, suddenly- I meld into you.
I can't feel your arms anymore because they're pressed so deeply into me. I can't feel anything, can't feel myself through it all. There are no cage-bar fingers twined through my hair and there is nothing to fear.
Pure emptiness from kiss to horizon.
Father has preached the same mantra since the beginning of time. Somehow, it has become my religion in all respects and all irreverence. Never find yourself in a place you can't get out of. Never?
Excommunicate me. I'd make a religion for this. Teach me parseltongue so your bible can slither in and unfold this fear of proximity.
Pardon my sins.
Amen.