On Decadence

Side: Her

Ideally, if he wanted that, you'd silently lead him to the ends of the Earth, into your clumsily crafted castle of cards. Ideally, he could mess it up and have you watch with a snap of his fingers. Because, ideally, he's the one who's crazy. He's the one who, no matter which angle you look from, doesn't feel entirely human; so strange, from the outside, more similar to a monster than to you,

You,

fair-skinned deity with a hundred baby blue eyes and enough fractured bones to last you all the lifetimes to come.

Ideally, you'd stand there as he turns you, all of you

into dust.

Soon you'll have to realize they're all lies, but for a while, you'll pretend.

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Once upon a time the fairy tale began like this: it's at a university meet. A lively university meet, sophisticated cutlery and candles and all that. Professor Carter introduces his son with a big, kind smile, but shes not sure he's ever mentioned a son before.

Well, no matter.

The man talks about his law studies in a college she has never heard of. He's been abroad for six years. He talks about anything futile and shallow and golden like he's never seen any of it.

Which is very much true. It disturbs her, how he's elegantly leaning against the pearl-white column on the veranda, sweet-talking her into believing that her arms capture the moon and blending cool honey with her blood. The cold stings against her flushed cheeks. Love is a riddle she threw out of her brain so she wouldn't have to deal with a solution, whichever it is- She just want to enjoy the riddle while it lasts, can anyone blame her?

Except the riddle comes back to torment her in the form of him . This man is quite intricate. He's not just like anyone else, fluttering shadows spinning around in the hall, feasting and laughing and humiliating themselves just to feel a rush of emotion, not unlike savages. The truth is: she understands them. What would he say if she told him how she had feasted and laughed and humiliated herself to placate her boredom? He offers her another glass of wine, another sweet line, delivered to her as if she were a pretty doll with a soft spot for flattery and spiderweb-like men, which she is.

And she smiles like she has smiled to every man who has ever tried to get into her bed.

She remembers well how that glass of wine he handed you ended up all over his expensive tailored vest, and him leaving the party right after.

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[So here's a catalogue of the things she believes.

She is not
waiting for you to bestow something upon me, like she's a poor desperate thing, and you some holy ghost she's not even allowed to kiss.

She is not
crying, sniffing, pleading, like she's a beggar, and you stopped right in front of her with all she long for in you hands. She glimpse at your world, you have the key.

She is not
looking for an opening to sink her nails in and wring it out of your mouth,

She is not
starting to see that you long for something just as much as she does,

She is not
intrigued by you you, like you're softer than caramel cake, like you don't reek of death from a mile away.]

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