Evocation is lost on the tip of the tail, the tiger trapped, conditioned away from who it is; the crave of thunder, the metallic sting, the rush through a chewed-up core.
The straight talk. The scraped residue. Sticky and black, shaken from fingers before stains, before the spell defiles, aches of slurped-up sweet talk, cherry lip gloss gelato on spoon, the fizzy, fizzy backwash of neon-pink soda down the drain. (Way too sweet to be refreshing.)
Maybe if I wait long enough, what drips from my tongue will moisten someone else’s crumbs; the fabrication, the manipulation of use.
I kissed him with my eyes closed and opened them to truth. That. Is worth dying for. ~ A
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