Seek

Wounds that never quite heal bleed fresh across the cold purity of white cotton sheets and on his back he simply breathes in the scent of decay and waits, waits for the taste of static and feel of flesh diseased. Above him the ceiling fan wobbles sleepily and the clock ticks the seconds away into nothing and he knows he knows he knows a mouth that tastes like ash fixes to the juncture of collarbone and the ghost of dirty blonde strands distract his skin from the firmness of blood-slick fingers over the dusky swell of nipple. Nerve endings fire at nothing in the transitional darkness; his insides stir in sickness but his limbs are frozen in place and the response he gives is not his own and he knows that too.

Feels instead of sees the smile in glass-slick eyes; knows knows knows the heat of dirty fingers inside him and the hurt of the tongue in his mouth and the god god god why me? and he already knows the answer.

302.

He would be His, His Final Submission, out and out and in and