A/N: I don't even know what this is. Apparently Bob and I write poetry now (and are still stuck in CronenburgLand with no hope of escape.)
Bob's poem for this verse is posted here (http://bob5fic.livejournal.com/67342.html).
**********************
I turned—I turned away my head because I didn't want you to see me
like this.
+
The perfume's not yet worn off, honeysuckle and gardenia sweetly sick and delicate. It's a tangle from which you can't get free; your mind is a maze— spacious and confused.
You usually don't allow yourself the luxury of thinking this much, of dwelling on it, of talking yourself down. But sometimes the cobwebs tangle and you lose track and you— You can't remember if this shade of lipstick is yours or meant for someone else.
Sometimes the blood is the only thing that can wash it off.
+
"Your face," he says and his touch brooks no argument You flinch away but his hands hold fast. The water's hot and the cloth is rough and the mascara mixes with the blood on your cheek. He wipes it off. He wipes it all off. (How does he even know?) You don't say thanks because you never do; it's not how you operate. He takes his time (he always does) until it's gone, until you're free. His hands are soft. His hands are strong.
You don't say thanks (but you never do).
You don't say thanks but you breathe.
+
After that, you don't take it so well. It's too soft, and too smooth. Friction and pressure and pain you can handle. That is a language you can speak.
But not this.
"Why won't you tie me down?" you say, and place your hands on cool metal. "If you want this, why won't you?"
He checks the water, scalding hot, and doesn't look away. "It can't work like that," he says. "Not here."
You flinch at the words; they don't make sense. They burn, far more than the water or the marks on your wrists ever could. You storm out of the room; you don't look back.
Most times he has no words, or only a very few. But sometimes he has all of them.
You wish he didn't.
+
He keeps at it though. He's patient like that. (He's always been the patient one.)
And slowly you realize that it's not about power or pleasure or even pain. It's something more than all of this.
And on the day that you let him wash your long red hair, the day that he rinses the blood until the water runs clear, then you begin to understand:
It was never about him at all.
+
"What are you waiting for?" you ask once. "When you're done—how do you know?"
He gives a faint smile and looks away. "I just do," he says. "You move different. You come back"
(to me)
You lean over and kiss him, thoughtless, on impulse, and he seems surprised but not shocked. He unwraps the towel from your skin, licks off the water with his tongue. You let him kiss you; you kiss him back
Fic: my skin is not my own (rated PG-13 for implications of sexin')
Bob's poem for this verse is posted here (http://bob5fic.livejournal.com/67342.html).
**********************
I turned—I turned away my head because I didn't want you to see
me
like this.
+
The perfume's not yet worn off, honeysuckle and gardenia sweetly sick and delicate. It's a tangle from which you can't get free; your mind is a maze—
spacious and confused.
You usually don't allow yourself the luxury of thinking this much, of dwelling on it, of talking yourself down. But sometimes the cobwebs tangle and you lose track and you—
You can't remember if this shade of lipstick is yours or meant for someone else.
Sometimes the blood is the only thing that can wash it off.
+
"Your face," he says and his touch brooks no argument
You flinch away but his hands hold fast.
The water's hot and the cloth is rough and the mascara mixes with the blood on your cheek.
He wipes it off.
He wipes it all off. (How does he even know?)
You don't say thanks because you never do; it's not how you operate.
He takes his time (he always does) until it's gone, until you're free.
His hands are soft. His hands are strong.
You don't say thanks (but you never do).
You don't say thanks but you breathe.
+
After that, you don't take it so well.
It's too soft, and too smooth.
Friction and pressure and pain you can handle. That is a language you can speak.
But not this.
"Why won't you tie me down?" you say, and place your hands on cool metal. "If you want this, why won't you?"
He checks the water, scalding hot, and doesn't look away. "It can't work like that," he says. "Not here."
You flinch at the words; they don't make sense.
They burn, far more than the water or the marks on your wrists ever could.
You storm out of the room; you don't look back.
Most times he has no words, or only a very few. But sometimes he has all of them.
You wish he didn't.
+
He keeps at it though. He's patient like that. (He's always been the patient one.)
And slowly you realize that it's not about power or pleasure or even pain. It's something more than all of this.
And on the day that you let him wash your long red hair, the day that he rinses the blood until the water runs clear, then you begin to understand:
It was never about him at all.
+
"What are you waiting for?" you ask once. "When you're done—how do you know?"
He gives a faint smile and looks away. "I just do," he says. "You move different. You come back"
(to me)
You lean over and kiss him, thoughtless, on impulse, and he seems surprised but not shocked.
He unwraps the towel from your skin, licks off the water with his tongue.
You let him kiss you; you kiss him back
You breathe.
It becomes a habit.