a.v.d

2h02: ariadne is dead; and i’m not qualified.

a gesture is a gun is the trigger i’ve been waiting for you to pull, so
i answer: “yeah. what do You want.”
he smiles. half mad, half Love. what i always want. freedom in submission. but
tell me, tell me about the Girls. maybe i can weaponize it.

fine.

they both had red hair. and i loved them.

no. more. i want more.

fine, fucker: shotguns. you think Your touch is all that kills? i shotgunned, no;
waterfalled smoke from One’s lips. the idiot that beat me, he thought it for
his benefit. regret and roses carved into his skin now on my behalf,
(how long have you been around, exactly)
i hope his ribcage still stings like my gag reflex. any
way. the other i held hands with at 17, spoke but didn’t
in a backseat oblivious, and separate to the world of Men.

fuck your front seat, the action’s in the back.

go on, he says, and i smell salt and gunpowder and tannins and-

She left me for the boy that looked like You.
i can’t blame Her, here i am.
lost in Your touch, smell, ekstasis.
but i loved Her, You understand?

i Loved Her. i Loved Her so much and that was the betrayal. i only
feel Her now in perfumes and the desert and the Drowning That Is Hanging, 

i Want i Want i Want and I

can’t.
the net is a web, You Know. I know You do.
the Love You’d give all to remain sleeping, I know. I Know.

fingers gone, a kiss replaces, and the tear streaked mask looks like
me.

“Good girl.” He sobs.

“i knew you could pull the trigger yourself.”