Thursday, February 03, 2011


He walked the spirals willingly, each step a memory. Here was her hair like fine silk on his pillow, there taut tendons as he stretched her beneath him. A twist brought mornings spent tending their bruises – some on the inside, where the dark thing grew.

A thousand steps for the days he’d kept her. A thousand pinpricks, each in a different spot, his poisoned nerves dying upward, until he could barely make the final turn.

She stood, pitiless and perfect, her malice a reflection of his love. At her feet, the darkling child crooned to taste his heart.

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