[ SEDUCTION ] ― my muse whispers dirty nothings into their ear. [+ reverse, Rabbit and the Serpent. it whispers to her as it eats her dreams, praising her loyalty, hurting her, its form intangible, untouchable, beyond comprehension. do not ask me.]
Body a stranger she does not know -- body a house in a dream, almost like a home hardly remembered but different in the way that architecture only achieves in unconsciousness.
Rabbit drifts in and out; sleep is harder since it's arrival, despite the countless pieces of lepidolite and howlite she hoards by her bed, and yet she cannot bring herself not to lay offerings about. No altar needed; The Serpent knows what is left for it, and takes more, besides.
Counts to ten, counts to thirty, counts to two hundred twenty six. A few minutes snatched from it's unhinged jaw, effusive pleasure come and gone like nothing, replaced with a headache that throbs at the back of her neck and a pulsing unnameable ache under her lower ribs.
Is this what it means to worship?
Ritual madness accomplished not through drink and poison, but the tidal nature of sleep?
Does she feel it beneath her bed, writhing in it's consumption, or is that a waking dream?
Is there a difference, a demarcation point, when it comes to a creature of it's nature?
--There are no creatures of it's nature.
Simply itself.
She tosses the blanket from her body like death's shroud.
Her toes bleed with the warmth leeching from her body.
And always, the whisper. Is it the house settling? Or does it tell her of her power, her potential? Secrets about herself she does not know.
Dawn is grim and gray, beyond.