i think i want to start working on this piece again.
The Flowergirl
1.
She stands up in the garden and brushes the roses from her hips. Her eyes are gold. And yesterday Avalanche was the name of a girl in Boston who lived for cocaine and Kahlua; she had thin fingers and beautiful veins, but girls like that only waste their names. The flowergirl kissed it away and left her dreamless, forgotten, dead.
The man she's after is oil paints and rough blank canvas. He spills his wine when he sees her and she sips it from his life line, his fate line, his sex line, she curls her tongue over his fingertips and watches him blush. Leaves him gasping over soft mothwing lips.
"Nidhoggr chews at the roots of the world," she says. Her voice drips like fresh honey. "I can sing for you."
And the wineglass is broken, but he doesn't know. His eyes are hungry for her shoulders, her calves. He nods.
"Take me inside," she says.
2.
The rest of the house is dusk and charcoal, but his bedroom is where he paints and his bedroom is RED, the walls and ceiling and carpet RED, and it hums through the flowergirl's bones. She lays her hands on everything, leaves her fingerprints silver in rinds of frost. He stands in the doorway, heavy, waiting. Her eyes settle on him and she smiles.
"Come," she says, she purrs, and he is uncertain, no, he is lost. He leaves his boots at the door and she blocks the way to his easel.
"I want to paint you," he says.
She shakes her head, lifts her shirt. "Not yet." She has gossamer skin. She has tattoos. His hands follow the fabric up and up, over her ribs, her breasts. She wraps her legs around him and he leaves teethmarks around one nipple. He sucks her neck until it blossoms with color. They spill onto the bed and she is smirking. Take take take, her eyes beg, and they are lying. Take me, take me -- give.
He gives. Such soft hot skin. She could bury her hands in him, dig for his heart, but there's no need. There are better ways. Of course there are. The flowergirl is poison, and she is wise. So she unfolds for him, and she enjoys it, first his hand and then his thrusting, desperate hips. She fucks him like December, like starving winds and black ice, and he screams when he comes.
Now, she thinks, he is ready. Now, she thinks, he is hers.
He shivers and she laughs.
3.
For days and days the phone rings and he doesn't answer. Doesn't notice. He sweats over the pearl of her nails, the ocher and emerald of her eyes. This is a man who sings when he works, but there is no singing now. He breathes through his mouth like he can inhale her.
"Avalanche," he says at night, and she's kneeling, she rolls her gaze upward while her tongue makes thick wet circles. "Avalanche," he repeats, but then he forgets, just the way she likes. That jerkpulsewarmth down her throat and she has to be so so careful not to take too much, too soon. It would be so easy. It would feel so good.
It would ruin everything, she reminds herself, and watches him sleep. She wonders, is there enough of him left to dream?
The Flowergirl
1.
She stands up in the garden and brushes the roses from her hips. Her eyes are gold. And yesterday Avalanche was the name of a girl in Boston who lived for cocaine and Kahlua; she had thin fingers and beautiful veins, but girls like that only waste their names. The flowergirl kissed it away and left her dreamless, forgotten, dead.
The man she's after is oil paints and rough blank canvas. He spills his wine when he sees her and she sips it from his life line, his fate line, his sex line, she curls her tongue over his fingertips and watches him blush. Leaves him gasping over soft mothwing lips.
"Nidhoggr chews at the roots of the world," she says. Her voice drips like fresh honey. "I can sing for you."
And the wineglass is broken, but he doesn't know. His eyes are hungry for her shoulders, her calves. He nods.
"Take me inside," she says.
2.
The rest of the house is dusk and charcoal, but his bedroom is where he paints and his bedroom is RED, the walls and ceiling and carpet RED, and it hums through the flowergirl's bones. She lays her hands on everything, leaves her fingerprints silver in rinds of frost. He stands in the doorway, heavy, waiting. Her eyes settle on him and she smiles.
"Come," she says, she purrs, and he is uncertain, no, he is lost. He leaves his boots at the door and she blocks the way to his easel.
"I want to paint you," he says.
She shakes her head, lifts her shirt. "Not yet." She has gossamer skin. She has tattoos. His hands follow the fabric up and up, over her ribs, her breasts. She wraps her legs around him and he leaves teethmarks around one nipple. He sucks her neck until it blossoms with color. They spill onto the bed and she is smirking. Take take take, her eyes beg, and they are lying. Take me, take me -- give.
He gives. Such soft hot skin. She could bury her hands in him, dig for his heart, but there's no need. There are better ways. Of course there are. The flowergirl is poison, and she is wise. So she unfolds for him, and she enjoys it, first his hand and then his thrusting, desperate hips. She fucks him like December, like starving winds and black ice, and he screams when he comes.
Now, she thinks, he is ready. Now, she thinks, he is hers.
He shivers and she laughs.
3.
For days and days the phone rings and he doesn't answer. Doesn't notice. He sweats over the pearl of her nails, the ocher and emerald of her eyes. This is a man who sings when he works, but there is no singing now. He breathes through his mouth like he can inhale her.
"Avalanche," he says at night, and she's kneeling, she rolls her gaze upward while her tongue makes thick wet circles. "Avalanche," he repeats, but then he forgets, just the way she likes. That jerkpulsewarmth down her throat and she has to be so so careful not to take too much, too soon. It would be so easy. It would feel so good.
It would ruin everything, she reminds herself, and watches him sleep. She wonders, is there enough of him left to dream?