Sometimes I wore smiles but didn’t feel them. Sometimes I felt them and didn’t wear them. I didn’t want her to know how much I craved this. I bit my bottom lip.
But that was two years ago. She wasn’t sexy to me anymore. Now she was lethal.
But we were different now. I wanted only his pain, and judging from the girl he’d come home with last night, Madoc was still the same. A user.
Fallon affected my body in weird ways. But only because she’s different, I told myself.
I’m not sure. But there’s something about the darkness, the stillness of this hour, I think, that creates a language of its own. There’s a strange kind of freedom in the dark; a terrifying vulnerability we allow ourselves at exactly the wrong moment, tricked by the darkness into thinking it will keep our secrets. We forget that the blackness is not a blanket; we forget that the sun will soon rise. But in the moment, at least, we feel brave enough to say things we’d never say in the light.
Becoming hurts.
His dear face, dear to her, dearer still. how could she love his face more for its damage? What kind of person saw someone's suffering and felt her heart crack open even wider, even more sweetly than before? There was something wrong with her. It was wrong to want to touch a scar and call it beautiful.
I love the sight of his naked body. especially in these quiet, vulnerable moments. These brackets of time stapled between dreams and reality are my favorite. There's a sweetness in this hesitant consciousness - a careful, gentle return of form of function, I've found I love these minutes most for the delicate way in which they unfold. It's tender. Slow motion. Time tying its shoes.
All you have to do is choose the right day, the right weather, and you come upon a hidden place in the morning light where time stopped long before you were born
