WickedCadrach

Second Pentacle Draw: Queen of Pentacles Prompt: You feel pain. Where is the pain coming from? What is it caused by? Major Arcana: The Star There's nothing there. While I retch and hack my lungs clear, the fear that kept my higher mind restrained uncoils itself from around my throat and heart enough for questions to rise. Where am I? How did I get here? But as my hands and mind both fumble for stability, neither find it. I tumble out of the pine box and off the end of the table I was set on. With an anxious cry, the young undertaker manages to get one gangly arm around my waist to break my fall as he tosses the pry bar to the stones, a jarring clang against the murmuring quiet of the night. He lets me go as I sink to hands and knees, pressing my fingers into the flagstone floor and digging little runnels in the carpeting of wood shavings and hearth ash mucked with rain water made filthy by its journey through leaking thatch and clay tile. I feel too weak to stand yet. My body feels chill, but I'm not shivering. So I stay there. I curl my elbows to my knees and breathe, watching the shadow play of the hanging lantern's flame against the floor and the cracked daub walls where loose planks and semi-assembled coffins of the same pale pine that held me lie with stoic patience. He's fretting with a kettle and basin—the high squeak and dull thump of a rain barrel's bung being stoppered, but my lack of reply seems to have quieted his nervous rambling. The undertaker's shadow falls on me and I flinch, though I don't know why. But he only sets the basin beside me, a rag hanging over its lip and slowly drawing the mostly-clear water. I take his meaning. As he said a moment before, I no doubt look 'a mess', and while he settles the kettle on a stone stove in a far corner of the room, kept swept and clear of the incendiary detritus around me, I reach for the rag. Kneeling, I lift the little scrap of fabric between my fingers and wring it out, cool water flowing over my wrists and drizzling into the basin. My fingers and thumbs begin to prick and prickle but I pay them no mind, pushing the rag over my face and feeling the grime lift as I drag it from the corners of my eyes and over my nose. Refreshment. Renewal. I feel the terror of the coffin draining from me as I dip the rag again. The pins and needles sensation in my hands sharpens as my fingers reach the water. I wince in discomfort passing the rag to one hand as I flex my fingers. It's sharp now—a million tiny ants biting into each digit, and I take a sharp breath, a feverish mewl escaping as the same sensation blooms in my face. Each pore is on fire—the intensity growing, burning! The water on my flesh feels like scouring lye melting my skin from my skull as I begin to scream. The young man turns in surprise, the kettle falling from the stove with a clang as he rushes to me. Crouching, he grasps my frantically shaking wrists and tries to meet my eyes, his gaze wide and staring while his cracking voice asks over and over 'what's wrong?' Throwing my body to the floor, I kick out at his chest, scrambling like a rat in the dirt as I scurry away from the basin. I take fists of loose saw dust, dried mud, and whatever else lies between the flagstones, scouring my face with rough scrubbing sweeps of my palms. I feel the clinging droplets dry, absorbed and pulled away by the brown and ash clinging to my skin... my smooth, uninjured skin... and the burning fades.

ACT I: Pentacles You wake up in an unfamiliar place, seemingly within a town or city. You cannot remember who you are or why you are here. All you know for certain is that you are not in your home. First Pentacle Draw: Six of Pentacles Prompt: There is someone at your side. Who is this person? What do they say to you? Major Arcana: The Fool I gasp, choking immediately on a haze of sawdust and rat feces. My eyes shoot wide, but I'm met only by darkness, and as I blink stinging particles from my eyes in a flow of tears, my hands knuckle against a plane of rough pinewood above me, unable to reach my face. The seizing in my dry throat turns to a painful, wheezing cough as my body jerks from the epileptic effort of trying to draw a single full breath from the prickling miasma filling my lungs, and in a panic, I beat the sides of my hands and wrists against the wood containing me. "Hold on! Oh, this ain't right. No, sir, this ain'tnt right one bit." Metal bites the wood and draws a groaning crackle as the pine lid pops above me. Greasy yellow lantern light leaks in. "Hang in there! Don't fuss, I have you!" I can't draw enough breath to reply, but I press my palms to my stomach as I try to steady my breath and stop myself from hyperventilating into a faint. It takes three impacts of the prybar before the flat iron bit can separate the coffin nails from their meal of rough cut pine. The young man on the other side grabs my arm, pulling me upright into clearer, if not clean, air. He pats my back in a handful of anxious swats as if he's beating a rug, his baggy tunic sleeve flopping about his scrawny arms as he puts his pock-marked face directly beside mine. His crooked smile has a guileless innocence to it as he lets out a whooping sigh that falls through the floor into a laugh by the end. "Not for nothin', miss, but you did look dead. Mind I'm not the one 'sposed to check the drop and flop what come in, not on the regular anyway, but given the sir is away and left me alone—shovel and key and 'whatever will be', as it were—I feel somethin' responsible. Oh, but you are a mess." Wincing apologetically, he reaches up and plucks a jagged splinter from my matted hair. "Anyways... sorry."

The Hermit IX - The Hermit : The Hermit has associations with solitude, contemplation, and self-reflection. It is symbolic of leaving the voices of the world behind and finding stillness and silence enough to hear one's inner voice speak. He lights the way ahead by his own lantern, looking to no star or sign to guide his path. when you are ready take a deep breath and wake up

loaded potatoes

Robin's eyes went wide and she stumbled a little to move out of the way as the couple fled the room. "Sorry!" she meekly called after then, her dark eyebrows knit in concern. She wondered if Dylan was in pain. The mysterious girl who had been the object of Robin's secret desires was still dealing with a sharp strike to the head and was still bleeding a little, despite Robin's assistance. While Dylan had seemed ok moments before, that might have been the head trauma--she might only now be feeling the real pain of it. All of these thoughts were whirling in Robin's mind, trying to justify why the softly spoken Dylan had yelled... why she was pulling her into the guest bedroom... why-- Dylan's hands were on her bare waist. Robin let out a little squeak of surprise, her body tensing. She stumbled as Dylan's grip tightened on her ass, the fabric of her swimsuit bottoms pulled tight into the crack while her arms flew up in a desperate clutching bid for balance that only succeeded in pulling Dylan harder against her. What was happening? Robin didn't even have time to register the thought as Dylan's lips found hers, hungry and insistent, pushing until Robin slid against the little desk. The heavy wood groaned and dragged a scant inch from the impact of her hip, her teeth clashing with Dylan's as they came to a halt and Robin felt her pressing against her. Her body was shaking from the fight, from seeing Dylan bleeding on the ground, adrenaline and anxiety already fraying her and now leaving her frozen as a fresh wave washed over Robin from within. All the nights, lying in bed, thinking of Dylan... Imagining Dylan on those long walks from the park back to the apartment Robin shared with her cousin and aunt... imagining him in his loose clothing at the pier, passing her at the corndog stand and seeing the sun in those deep poetic eyes... No, not 'him', the breasts pressed against her own contradicted the image she'd had of Dylan. But she'd already kissed a girl tonight. It was happening so fast--and her nerves were so electrified. There was no time to think and only the barest notions, not even full thoughts, controlled her now. She liked kissing, and she'd dreamed of Dylan. Dylan was kissing her now. And for a few moments, that primal arithmetic took control. Her arms at her side, pushing to the desk behind her to keep her balance, Robin's hips pressed forward instinctively, meeting Dylan's body as her neck tilted and she yielded to the other's kiss. It was different from Velvet, somehow hungrier... angrier... but the pressure set her on fire, and as Robin's eyes fluttered closed, she let out a moan into Dylan's mouth. She was scared and excited, her heart racing as her lips parted to silently beg for more.

So... I think I want that Turn Someone On roll. Dylan's just come out of a fight, shouted at a couple in a way Robin hasn't seen them act before, and now is grabbing hold and taking charge in a way that's totally new also... I think I want to let the dice decide if this is 'scary, but exciting' or just 'scary' for her. (Also, in front of Selene and Velvet! ) @DreamsnThings if you want to jump in too, you're still very much welcome. I know life can make it hard sometimes, but you're still very much welcome if/when you want to jump in.)

old fashioned

Guilty. I made up some pizza dough last week and had a lovely oil and garlic base pizza with caramelized onion, peppers, marinated tofu crumbles, and kalamata olives. The next person has been holding onto something broken, but hasn't gotten around to fixing it.

That's a valid distinction. With solo rpg's you can leave that imprint of yourself in the world and the story, not just in how you play the character. Playing a character with the same values and general experiences as you (which I guess is how I think of 'playing yourself'?) is definitely not the only way for the game to resonate with real life emotions and insights.

Can't help but have some parts of ourselves in every kind of RPG, but solo games definitely set a stage where it's more natural to 'play yourself'.

@IsabellaRose Thanks for sharing! Did any really stand out for you? All this talk is making me want to pick one up again.

Mythic GM looks fun, but I haven't tried it out myself. I've played through a couple specialized Solo RPGs like Thousand Year Old Vampire and really enjoyed them. It's interesting how those sorts of systems force you make your own meaning. With a human GM, there's some prepared thread or at least intentional elements in the sandbox, and you assume there's going to be coherence before you open the next door. But with tables and interpretation, you end up having to justify it yourself, and I've found that sort of system gives you these really delicious moments where something from earlier in the story ends up dramatically recontextualized. In my TYOV playthrough, I had this late-game moment where I realized my vampire had been lying to herself over the ages and purposefully forgotten that her cherished ally and touchstone of her humanity had betrayed and tried to kill her, leading them into a tearful 'why are you doing this?' final showdown.

fresh fruit

sperm count

Fuck. I have bad news if you were expecting help with bills, but at least we can console each other.

Mess hall

Marry. You strike me as someone who has good insurance... but in a sexy way...

For the first two minutes, Madison stood at the head of the small community center classroom, facing the door with a soft smile that threatened to break out into a giddy grin. It was the sort of look one gets while staring down at a wrapped Christmas present, knowing full well what lies under the paper but playing along until the moment comes to finally throw pretension aside. A touch anxious, she gave her hands something to do by smoothing out the red dress she'd bought for the occasion, an elegant wine red number that hugged her hips and showed enough skin to keep the atmosphere fun. Because that's what she was. She'd decided that months ago. She was smart and charming and fun, and she could prove it, damn it! She had been looking forward to hosting the wine tasting, her own little community event, for weeks, and now it was here—she was here. But as the posted start-time slipped by, Madison was the only one here. Five minutes past. Madison stepped off her mark and took a slow turn about the room. She adjusted the empty glasses, shuffling them by their stems and inspecting each for the smallest flaw. Next she gave little tweaks to the plates of cheddar, pecorino, and gruyere. She waved away a fly that had begun to circle the cool dish holding apricot and herbed goat cheese. She even came so far as the bruschetta platter lying in repose beside the citadel of gleaming wine bottles she'd selected for the event. It was a touch more than she'd budgeted for, but Madison wanted to make an impression. This was her new home and she was a new Madison. At ten minutes, she poked her head into the hall, a lock of her auburn hair falling loose from an artfully messy bun and over her ear as she poked up the corner of her glasses and gave a concerned look to the empty, tile hall, her eyes drawn toward the glass lobby wall and exterior doors facing the rising moon beyond. She had the right time, the sandwich board she'd spent the better part of an hour drawing the tasting event's details on—in fun and enticing calligraphy, no less—confirmed it. Madison picked at her fingertips, forcing herself to stop twice as she checked the event page online. Thirty-four people had marked that they were interested in coming. Thirty-four profile pictures of varying clarity and fidelity staring up at her with smiles that now seemed to say, 'You didn't really think we were coming, did you?' Fifteen minutes. Madison uncorked a bottle of Rosé, popping a tiny cube of gouda into her mouth as she strode to one of the short tables to fetch a glass. At twenty-eight minutes, she poured a second. Fuck it, Madison thought, topping the glass after a particularly vengeful tilt of her drink. Slumping into a seat, she shook her head, tugging a little at the bun that now felt irritating on her scalp. This was what she got for trying to be something she so clearly wasn't, her mind declared. That's what this meant, of course. Somehow they'd all sensed it through the invites and the follow-up details emails. Fun. Smart. Charming. At twenty-nine minutes, Madison decided a wine tasting wasn't going to prove she was any of those things to anyone anyway. And at thirty minutes, someone else walked in.

Grief Stricken

Fanged death

Guilty. That sounds delightful and delicious. I actually had a blueberry wine not too long ago for Midsumar, and once upon a time, I made my own mead (I should try that again now that I know you can sub maple syrup for the honey). The next person has recently finished a book they'd love to tell us about.

Fuck, because a blood-stained kiss sounds really hot right now...

Not Guilty. Bad writing in a movie or a show can sour it for me pretty quick. Really though, what I mean by 'bad' is 'boring' writing. It doesn't have to be perfect as long as it's transmitting an interesting story and gives me something to play with while I'm watching. The next person would drink a cup of my homemade tea blend with me (It's good. Don't worry about it.)

//Ok. So two hours ago I threw out my original idea and decided to do this instead. Wheeee... Hopefully this matches at least one other person's weird. // Holographic koi fish broke into digital dust as Grinner shouldered his way past the projector. The chip-doc waved one silver arm across his face to break up some of the neon smoke filling his parlor, a momentary high making his vision choppy with static before the software in his head adjusted. “Would you not blow that shit right in my face? Thank you very much. Fucking manners with you cretins…” “Oh, I’m sorry, Grinner. Am I not allowed to smoke in your fucking chip-den?” Joey cackled and took another pull from his pack, crossing one combat-booted foot over his knee and jabbing an elbow into the couch to try and adjust the padding under its duct-tape upholstery. A high chirp of thin metal squeaked like a robotic cockatoo as a coil, a cobra sculpted out of straight-razors, arced through the air, stopping with the abrupt precision of a surgery-piece in front of Joey’s baby-blue naturals. The young runner froze, his lips fuzzing a long, buzzing J sound while he stiffened through the first syllable of “Jesus fucking Christ.” His back to Joey, the gaunt frame of Grinner’s torso was clear through the webbing of his pink fishnet top. Where his stomach should have been, the rest of his upper body was supported only by the stainless-steel column of his artificial spine. Wire-braided dreadlocks fell between loose cables trailing between the chip-doc’s skull and the various cabinets, servers, and drones in the cramped parlor to the point where it was unclear if Grinner was the man rooting through the bins or if this ghoul was just one more drone and Grinner was something else—maybe the chip parlor itself. Now that was a thought, Joey mused, the numbness in his blood turning his spike of fear and adrenaline into amusement as he let out a short, snorting laugh. The old psychopath wasn’t the first candyman Joey had been to by a long shot, but he was the only one who hadn’t tried to fuck him over yet or sold him some garbage-chip that loaded his headware with so many daemons he needed a fucking exorcism. And that alone should have been enough to put him on his best behavior. But boys who were good at behaving generally didn’t end up runners like him. “What’s the magic word?” Grinner growled, lifting a chip between chrome fingertips and inspecting it. “I’m a dick?” Joey flicked his thumb to kill the neon light on his pack, pocketing the piece with a sigh of relief as Grinner’s blades retracted into the small of his back, the extendable razor whip now folded no larger than a fingernail. “Good enough. Here.” Grinner tossed the chip to Joey, the small copper-plastic rectangle tumbling through the residual smoke a moment as it landed in the runner’s open palm. “Remember that battery-doll you used to date? She made that recording. It’s fresh too. I’ve only got a half-dozen imprints. Figured maybe you were looking to see some of what you’re missing out on.” The chip-doc cackled, a throaty, digitized sound as his native vocal chords ran through his plastic larynx’s off-kilter resonators. Joey grimaced and tossed the chip back. “Fuck off with that. Fucking dick.” His lip curled in disgust, but his eyes lingered where the chip landed. Truthfully, Grinner wasn’t that far off the mark. Joey had scored two solid pay-days and if he really wanted, he could have a real girl with that cash, maybe even one he didn’t have to pay by the hour. But that was still money. Cars. Drinks. Shows. And big spending meant going back on a run sooner rather than later. Joey’s fingers ran through his shaved side-fade up to the dirty blonde cut falling over his boyish features, the other hand feeling the nub of artificial scar tissue in his chest that told him he wasn’t ready… No, it was safer to ride it out with a chip to keep him company. “Look. I’m just trying to get a little RnR for a couple weeks. You got anything to… you know… keep morale up while I convalesce?” The black camera-lenses of Grinner’s eyes shuttered in a blink as he chuckled and turned back to the bins behind him. “Convalesce? Fucking hundred-credit word outta this guy. Better get you the fancy stuff.” “Grinner, I don’t need—” “No, no, your excellency. I have some top shelf shit here. What you lookin’ for? I got some new 47s… Acapulco Orange… You want something you can feel for daaays, I got this new strain of Kaleidoscope where you’ll swear you know what the fuckin’ moon tastes like. Or…” With a glance back, Grinner showed where his name came from, as his plastic jaw split to reveal a skeletal chrome jaw and a skull-like smile. “Maybe you and the battery-doll didn’t click because she’s not your type? I got Peter Pans here… Mary Sues… You got some pent up feels there, bud? Want some Bad Touch or some Snuffies?” Joey’s mouth worked in a tight grimace as he tried not to cuss out his last solid chip-dealer. “You actually have a recommendation, or do you need a few more minutes to bust my balls?” For a moment, Grinner froze in a pose eerily similar to a snake about to strike, and Joey felt his arm stiffen along with a sudden awareness of where his pistol lay against his ribs. “Yeah…” the chip-doc said at last. Dropping the chip in his fingers he lifted a cable and handed it to Joey. “Here. Have a few tastes—on the house. You can pick after… just put that towel under your junk.” There was a split second of hesitation where Joey weighed the pros and cons of refusing the heavily-cybered chip-doc’s offer. But only a moment. These parlors didn’t last if they turned every insult into a vendetta, and even sitting on his pay-days, Joey was far from the biggest fish Grinner could net if he wanted to turn his little den of depravity into a chop-shop for wayward runners. Joey accepted the cable, giving the parlor owner a soft nod of thanks as he relaxed and settled against the couch’s grim, lumpy backrest. A small whir of internal micro-servos confirmed the port in Joey’s shaved temple was empty and ready to load, and with a final, quick breath, he pressed the slender metal connector into place with that soft click that seemed to come from nowhere, his ears still confused after all these years on how it could come from inside his own head. Vertigo and swimming nerves flushed through him as his vision went black, and Joey felt that familiar dying sensation of his spine being ejected through his sphincter while his brain disconnected from his meat body. For two seconds, he felt the usual terror as he tried to breathe through lungs that were no longer connected to his brain in any meaningful way, having to trust that the chip’s basic LS drivers were keeping his sack of organs alive, or… in the worst case… that his headjack’s monitors were working well enough to dump him if he stopped breathing. Two… One… “Oh… Honey, you’ve been working so hard… Let me make it all better…” Joey blinked. The chip-den was gone. Concrete and chrome was replaced by linoleum and retro wooden furniture. He wasn’t sitting anymore. No, he was standing in what looked to be a kitchen full of bright sun and the clean smell of pine, lemon, and crackling bacon on an old-fashioned gas stove. His battle jacket was swapped for a brown sweater vest, and he had a wooden pipe in his mouth that added the warm smell of burning tobacco into the mix. At his waist, a woman in a blue dress was sliding to her knees. Perfectly manicured nails pulled at his belt as her blonde, beehive hairdo tilted back and wide blue eyes looked up into his with a breathy eagerness to please. “For everything you do for us, you deserve a little something just for you…” she purred. And Joey shivered as she reached into his trousers, pulling his cock free with a teasing caress along the base with her thumb. She made a wide O with her mouth, feigned surprise and delight played up with a girlish gasp of “Oh my!” Still disoriented, Joey barely moved, only shuddering and stiffening in place as her lips pressed to his tip and he felt the warm wet of her tongue in the little triangle where the head split. Distantly, he realized this body he was in was circumcised, the thought feeling laughably detached as his hand instinctively reached around the woman… no, his ‘wife’s’ head, tangling in her tightly kept beehive. His head lifted as Joey felt the tight pressure of her sucking him in between her lips. But he couldn’t focus on that. Over his head, translucent blue words were hovering in the air, and below them a number was steadily ticking downward. Wedding Bells – v6.043 … 4… 3… 2… 1… The room exploded around him as Joey felt his wife’s head atomized around his cock. He screamed, a feeling like falling making his arms flail, though he didn’t ‘exactly’ have arms anymore. Sizzling bacon and lemon-scented cleaner became sweat and liquor as his scream dissolved under a thrumming bass line. Joey blinked. He was seated again. This time he was on a soft faux-leather couch in a dark room that pounded with club music. A woman with cyan curls and built like a wet dream strutted forward in glittering heels. Her full, teardrop breasts bounced with the demand of each step as her hips swayed to show the dim light catching on her shining thong as she tugged the knot and allowed it to fall away. Glittering fingernails swept over her stomach as her hips slowly rotated, showcasing her bare pussy’s little, chubby lips for a full eight seconds before she swept forward. One heel planted on the couch beside Joey, and looking down, he saw this body already had its cock out—not his cock, but one near enough, apart from the upward ‘brontosaurus’ bend in its shaft. Next, her hand gripped the back of the seat over his shoulder, her chest pressing to his face as he instinctively opened his mouth like an infant and took her nipple between his lips. “Yeah… You want it, baby?” she teased, lowering herself down until her pussy kissed his eager tip, rocking back and forth in tight, controlled circles while Joey sedately nodded and murmured a ‘yes’ through a mouth that refused to open. Fingernails pinched his cheeks, forcing his chin up, and Joey gasped as she whispered into his ear, “Beg for it,” accompanying the words with a bite to his earlobe. Joey would have replied, but he was too distracted by the translucent text overhead. “Oh, come on!” Nova – v3.012 …2… 1… …Arnold - v1.893 Joey’s musclebound arm extended, tangling in her dark curls. Her torn linen dress flapped around his legs as he took her from behind, the wooden table he bent her over shifting forward with every thrust. The smell of gunfire and iron mixed with smoke, and Joey felt the rattle of his rifle on his back as their bodies clapped together to the rhythm of her squeals, a sound riding an uncanny line that was not quite pleasure—a line he did not inspect too closely as the powerful body he was in reveled in the control of holding the girl’s squirming body down. …Drone - v4.001 Joey didn’t have a body. He could see, but he didn’t understand how. It was like he was a security camera viewing himself from the outside. Only he wasn’t himself… He was only a cock… a meaty dildo being passed around a circle of giggling college girls as they leaned on pillows in a surreal and wobbly representation of a sorority bedroom, skirts and night gowns pulled high as Joey felt his spectral body tense and groan each time the Joey-do was pushed, kissed, and caressed between the loving sisters. …Gazpacho - v2.224 Chains rattled on an iron bedframe. The damp smell of wet concrete and stale sweat filled his nose… Joey screamed the entire time he held the chainsaw. …Avocado - v7.988 The beautiful people in black rabbit masks eyed Joey as he lifted the perfectly cooked steak to his lips. The taste of food, actual food—not the synth shit he lived on in the real world—brought a tear to his eyes. He cried, but the woman beneath the table did not seem to mind. …WindUpToy – v1.000 He was in a bed. There was no preamble to this one, instead Joey could feel immediately that he was inside of her. Her breasts pressed to his chest as her legs coiled around his hips. One chromed knee sent a shiver through Joey’s ribs as he melted against her, collapsing forward in a blind kiss. Her lips were full and warm, kissing him back as fingers like porcelain rode up his back and held him by his shoulders, pulling him down into her in steady, slow motions—like rolling waves dragging him out to sea. Joey moaned as he felt the pulse of vibration and the peristalsis coil of her sex working his shaft and tip like little fingers, a pussy as dexterous and playful as a blowjob. It was unique cyber, but not uncommon. Battery-dolls. That’s what they called the chromed-out girls on the corner. He kept his eyes closed. Pressing into her, his arms shivering as he wrapped her tight under him, Joey didn’t open them again. He didn’t dare. He only kept thrusting, his hips pistoning as his breath grew short, sharp and angry along with the tears squeezing out the corners of those shut eyes. …2… 1… Joey gasped and choked, heaving up from the couch as if he’d been stabbed, his erection painful as his jeans strangled him with the violence of his awakening. Across the parlor, Grinner was exchanging one of the dozen cables running from his skull. “Enjoy your trip? Anything catch your eye?” The lidless black lens shuttered in a wink. “I got full experience on all of those.” Retching, Joey leaned forward, lowering his head into his hands. With shaking hands, he drew out his pack again, inhaling a fluorescent cloud of neon vapor and smoke. Grinner clucked and shook his head. “Fucking light-weight.”

Attention. That's what's caught In the few inches your skull shifts, His fist in your hair, vision blurring Just before the e-brake strain of neck tendons. Just before the slap that ignites oil-red blood, Eyes defiant, brain gone feral, and your stupid, Stupid mouth about to say something that's so-- you. Something you heard in a porno while your fingers, Loud inside of you like dual exclamation points, Wrote them into you, bringing you to life, Animating your clay body--the golem whore, Pygmalion in an Iron Maiden t-shirt Pinching off a roach stained in black lipstick. Your thoughts were somewhere else, But now they're here, on him. Just like your hands. Just like your mouth. Just like your pussy. Attention. And you're caught In the slam of your elbow connecting with the wall, The 'fuck-you' energy of shoving his chest knowing He's too large to move while his own push moves you, The sharpness of teeth, hands pulling your collar, A fishing net dragging you, limbs collapsing together, And the lawless physicality of torn skinny-jeans, Tank tops, and boots you're not sure you want to kick off Or stomp into. Unsure Because the anarchy in your blood that makes you struggle, That brings your legs together just so he'll force them apart, It tells you there's shattered glass under you. But you are an animal of steaming skin, bare fangs and tongue, and bleeding-- Bleeding is just one more thing this undomesticated body does. Just like fucking. Just like singing. Just like murder and pain and painkilling. Attention. Fading fast. He tries to get it back, but you've called yourself worse. It's a sort of native language--intuitive and thoughtless. Just like ordering your drink. Just like that final wordless groan. Just like calling your reflection 'you' Because it's better than being alone.