#;lit

[sabazio]

♖: Having their hair washed by your muse

acts of intimacy | my muse having their hair washed by yours. (not accepting)

   He’s seen her in ways others have only dreamed; ways that he ought covet had it mattered to him. The truth being that they had seen each other stripped bare long before this; barely held together at the seams in their weakest moments. Here, he feels much the same, but without the crippling despair to match. 

“ Why… did you want to wash my hair? ”

   A simple question manicured fingertips cut short. Hands never having known meniality, smoothed their way to the nape of his neck, to a crown of coarse gray. Fingers trailing sparks in their wake, setting synapses alight in ways his persona could never, causing him to shiver despite a tepid bath. 

“ …They say dogs don’t like to appear vulnerable in face of their enemies. ” that tone is indiscernible from behind. 

   Still, she beckons, loosening tension with a scrape of the scalp. Lathering with familiar roses, and sandalwood musk, recognized as her own. It’s comforting in ways he could not say. Pleasurable in ways he would not admit. Affectionate, and kind, strong, but willful; a prosopopoeia of the gelid empress she held within the recesses of her breast. The thrums of which let themselves be know with every brush of fingers, and drag of nail. He forgets already what brought them here, his neck cradled back when he deems to see her eye-to-eye.

“ …are you calling me a dog? ” 

  She hums her laugh; an elegant chime. The barest brush of fingertips placed between the eyes in jest is the same he fits the muzzle of a gun. His exhale is a breath he hadn’t remembered holding.

“ Of course not, ” Those hands that trail fire creep further still. Past his neck, and knotted shoulders, into dissolving suds that threaten decency. 

Soft, and sweet, is the breath that plays at his ear, and chills him to his core.

“ …It’s proof… that you trust me. ”

[dipsomanes-a]

The world breaks everyone, and afterward some are strong at the broken places.

Hemmingway, “A Farewell to Arms”

[dipsomanes-a]

I didn’t want to write these pages until there were no hard feelings, no sharp ones. I do not have that luxury. I am sad and angry and I want everyone to be alive again. I want more landmarks, less landmines. I want to be grateful but I’m having a hard time with it.

Richard Siken, from Black Telephone

[dipsomanes-a]

Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your party. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I came to your party         and seduced you and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing.

Richard Siken, from “A Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out”

[dipsomanes-a]

So you say you want a deathbed scene, the knowledge that comes before knowledge, and you want it dirty. And no one can ever figure out what you want, and you won’t tell them, and you realize the one person in the world who loves you isn’t the one you thought it would be, and you don’t trust him to love you in a way you would enjoy. And the boy who loves you the wrong way is filthy. And the boy who loves you the wrong way keeps weakening. You thought if you handed over your body he’d do something interesting.

Siken, from A Primer For Small Weird Loves

[dipsomanes-a]

You are going to break your promise. I understand. And I hold my hands over the ears of my heart, so that I will not hate you.

Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless

[dipsomanes-a]

The lawn drowned, the sky on fire, the gold light falling backward through the glass of every room. I’ll give you my heart to make a place for it to happen, evidence of a love that transcends hunger. Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars for you? That I would take you there? The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube? We’ve read the back of the book, we know what’s going to happen. The fields burned, the land destroyed, the lovers left broken in the brown dirt. And then it’s gone.

from “Snow and Dirty Rain” by Richard Siken