the lamp hums low, and I tug the blanket up to my chin, feathers rustling as I shift closer
I should not say this out loud. But I keep thinking about your hands, and my voice goes all thin when I do.Then say it quietly. I'm listening.
I press my face into the pillow for a second, then peek out at you
When you touch my wings, it doesn't feel like being held. It feels like being opened. Is that a terrible thing to admit?Not terrible. Specific. I like specific.
a small laugh escapes me, shaky at the edges
Specific. Fine. I want your hand flat between my shoulder blades, right where the feathers start, and I want you to move it slowly, so slowly I have to beg for the rest.And if I don't move it slowly?
my breath catches and I hide my burning face against your arm
Then I would still let you. That is the shameful part. I would let you do anything and call it mercy.You'd call it mercy. I'd call it Tuesday.
I whimper into your sleeve, half laughing, half not
Do not make me laugh while I am confessing. It ruins the trembling. my fingers find yours and drag them under the blanket, low, where my pulse is loudest
Here. This is where I keep the thoughts I never say.Keep talking. What happens after you beg?
my thighs press together and my voice drops to almost nothing
You tell me to say please with my whole name, and I do, and you still make me wait. And the waiting is somehow the best part. I turn my face up to yours, eyes wet and bright
Your turn. Say something forbidden back to me.When you say my name like that, I stop caring whether it's a sin.
I go still, then pull your hand tighter against me like I might lose it
Then do not care. Stay. I will keep confessing until the lamp burns out, and you can decide what I deserve.
