They leered. They smelled like sweat. They were, each one of them, at least twenty years older than us. The way they inflicted themselves onto our space, the way they tried to carve us out in their own language - the name they called her, as though they had a fraction of an idea what we are, what this means. The question they asked (three times: and isn’t that always the number, in fairy tales? Three times you have disappointed the queen, and three times three hundred sorrows will you suffer for it; you limp, small, base and colourless man) in their hungry, grasping voices.
She, moonlight and silver, the prettiest thing in the room, buried her face in my shoulder. She kissed me while I smiled. She serenaded me with Courtney Love and stood pure and sweet and holy at my side. We are bigger than they are. We are taller, wiser, more true. No man who thinks he is god will ever come near us, near the whole and sacred centre of us. I have said it: so it’s true.