|
(There is something wrong with her eyes.) She leans in to kiss you, and you hold her steady by pressing your hand against the back of her head and open your mouth for her. You get lost for a second, maybe you forget to breathe, and in the red darkness you think you can feel her brain throbbing beneath her skull. (There is something wrong with her smile.) You nuzzle her cheek. Close your eyes. The darkness wavers and hurts, but less than the light. It is too bright in here, or maybe too dark. She is the only thing you can focus on; the rest of the world blurs like a fifth-generation photocopy. The sound of your breathing fuzzes like static. (There is something wrong with her touch.) Her kisses bruise; her caresses burn. It hurts, you try to say, but what comes out is, I love you, I love you so much, and for a moment you don't realize you didn't want to say that, because after all it's true. Baby, she says, baby, and you slide down to lick her flat belly. (There is something wrong with her taste.) Your tongue is heavy and thick and foul and you feel like you are choking on it, choking, but what comes out of your throat is gasps and murmurs and sighs. The inside of her thighs are silky-smooth but she tastes like corruption and shame. Willow, you say. Stop, you try to say, but you purse your lips and blow a soft breath in the way that makes her startle and laugh. (There is something wrong with you.) (There is something very wrong with you.) After she comes, she grips your shoulders and just sways, laughing softly, until her legs are steady. Then she pulls you up and back and the two of you tumble on the bed. It'll be good, she says, so good, so good this time, and she kisses the scars across your wrists and up your arms and the oldest one, the round scar high on your left breast. It'll be so good this time you won't want to leave me. Don't leave me, baby. I'll find you. I'll always find you. I'll always bring you back. I promise I'll always bring you back.
|