Work Text:
I wish I was better with words.
I would tell you exactly what went through my mind whenever I came to after the second accident.
In his words, a blue-haired black-eyed God, blood dripping down my face, he’s tripping over his own feet to get across the lot.
I would tell you how his gaze hit me as hard as his front bumper did last year, his glossy red eye pierced like a needle into my new fracture as he watched me eat the food he bought me, god I was starving.
I’d transcribe the meeting he had with my parents, I’d list every song I played for him on the keyboard in my room and tell you how I got the shivers from the way he eyed me up as I sang every song he asked me to.
I'd describe the way his crooked-toothed smile unsettled me when I first saw it, but it quickly grew on me and now I couldn't live without it.
He called me his star, he called me his pretty boy, he called me his angel.
If I could write, I’d describe the way his calloused hands felt, on my shoulder, on my wrists, the small of my back, around my throat, across my face, balled in a first connecting to my stomach.
I might add something about his somnophiliac hands on my comatose thighs, hips, and under my waistband. On second thought I’ll probably keep that part to myself.
If I were better with words I’d tell you how I didn't even notice that I was falling in love with my car crash captor, the Stockholm worms in my stomach effortlessly spinning their cocoons.
I would tell you how there's magic in the water on the beaches of Jamaica. I would tell you how they must make love potions at the bars. I would tell you how hotel beds become cloud nine when you're next to your lover. Don't tell him I called him that.
I would tell you how stage lights make sweat glimmer like stardust, how a bass cranked up to eleven is the best vibrator money can't buy. I’d tell you about the mortifying ordeal of the nascent butterflies in my stomach sinking into my pelvis as I sing for him in front of thousands, I'm a ballerina spinning on top of a music box and he's always winding me up.
Maybe, If I could, I'd hide a note just for myself; his Inhumanly long tongue, black talons like a crow, drawing lines of blood down my back. I'd write about his hot breath smelling of whiskey rolling across my skin, all the marks he relentlessly left night after night.
Stifle the moan, conceal the bruise, repress the feelings. Those secret nights belong to nobody but us.
If I were better with words I’d finally be able to explain why the smell of saltwater makes my heart explode and I'm suddenly claustrophobic in an open space. I could tell you why the beach doesn't feel like Jamaica anymore, it feels cold, it feels hard,
it feels plastic.
Now you're gone. I don't think I could explain why my butterflies haven't died even if I tried because I myself don't understand. You would think after all he's put me through I could burn them in the acid and never feel their wings again but here they are and here they stay. These butterflies in my stomach are Stockholm moths and they're made of stainless steel so I think I’ll always Iove you.