☎
send a symbol for my muse’s reaction to yours…
( hugging them ):;
“Get off!”
even in yelling it, in the hard and mangled shape those words took, from clawing themselves out of her throat ( the anger had risen like heat, closed her windpipe with the smoke of it, a growing fire, flames all licking the frame of her).
even in yelling it, she did not move.
she was a pole, some metal thing drilled into the ground, steel-ribbed. she was on fire and she wasn’t moving: she was letting in engulf her.
but she was still being touched, that was the worst of it– it was like she wasn’t even being heard, like her angry words, so hot with her emotion, were suggestion rather than demand. by this hatred to be touched like this, by just anyone– it was a consuming thing, the anger at the action, the brashness and ignorance from which this girl had born such a decision, the decision to touch her– it made her feel dirty. disrespected.
she found it in her thick metal arms to move, to send the signals necessary for her hands to curl, painful, anxious claws; to rip this girl away from her, with a roughness that knocked her to the ground. there was no apology issued. there was nothing but her anger, her frustration and disgust all pent up and bouncing around inside her, clawing like some wild thing she’d swallowed alive, gouging her very throat. she wanted to scream it out. she wanted to draw pain across that grounded body, to burn the fingers that had touched her without her consent, without her permission, without having earned it.
instead, she turned sharp, channeling a lifetime of political breeding, professionalism, control that came from somewhere underneath the animal inside her, and she walked away.
