Originally a fanfic. Originally a poem. Now the solution to insomnia, maybe. 3.56 am.

Title: Invocation

--

Saturday night and the ritual begins:

nails, teeth, lips, tongue, fingers,

Anything to be that much more closer

to feel the skin

That has become numb, has gone to sleep only

to be woken up by this desire.

God you try to tell your self, this is desire, this is

wrong, he is desire, he is wrong

But once in a while you need to drown in something reckless and oh how you want to

die.

Skin moves on skin like paper, whispers, rustles, breath

Like wrongs hushed up.

Like the melding of lips is unnatural

and it should be, God it has to be – this feeling, this desire

washing over you like a wave and it will carry you away and

drown you both.

You want to drown, don’t you?

You slip in his body and this is your baptism.

You hope this pleasure will clean you of the sins,

rid you of the nightmares but this is only flesh

and flesh dies, it rots and decays and stinks and

Oh God you know that don’t you?

You can’t forget the horrors, no, no you can’t.

This pleasure is not your friend, not like the ghosts

that stand by your bedside watching over you,

always.

But you want him; oh you want him so bad.

Your fingers dig into his hips, leaving beautiful bruises like flowers in bloom

that you lick,

bite,

suck and

it’s never enough. Not nearly enough.

Not enough to just own his flesh because you’ve tried that and flesh betrays,

betrays you to this heady pleasure, this urgency, this race towards

the finish line before the time is up.

No you want to own his soul, just like the way each scar owns his skin

And so much more.

And you do, you own his soul,

his heart that beats in the palm of your hands.

The light throbbing of his beautiful cock against your clutched fingers, like the fluttering wings of a trapped butterfly,

in ecstasy or something else.

And you can’t trust yourself to believe this, this

beautiful thing clasped in both your hands and the way just a press of

your fingers

makes the silken skin ripple, makes the rose petal coloured head blush,

makes the edges fill up with a dusty purple,

all crowned with a glistening drop of pearl. And this is yours, all yours.

Or so you think but you know this is a lie, like all the lies

You surround yourself with:

He loves you. Lie.

This will not be over in the morning. Lie.

But he does, you insist, all lies. Lie, lie, lie.

And he owns you as much as you don’t own him when his

back

arches

into the curve of your

body.

And the way he calls your name, as if this really is true love,

And you think so

until

He tells you it’s not

and it goes something like this, “Don’t get the wrong idea…”

gasp, a delicate hitch of his breath,

a sweat drop glistening on his neck,

anything to stop him from saying, “…this is just fucking.”

But it’s too late and you know it and he knows it and you’ve fallen,

And you’re sinking into him

And he’s clutching on to you

And you’re moving like only two lovers could so this must be

Love.

It must, you tell yourself, there is no other way.

Love. You repeat it again and again and again until there’s

a ringing

in your ears

like bells tolling in a far off land:

Something indiscernible. It should be very simple really.

One syllable: love.

Whispered.

Gasped.

Pleaded.

Screamed.

Uttered harshly at the end of a breath,

the desperate gamble for life when your teeth clamp down on your lip

and “love”

as crimson as the blood blossoming

from under the wound you created.

So much pain, the last syllable, the end of a line:

Love.

You pull out of him,

agonisingly slow,

as if performing a painful ritual.

And it hurts, you know it does and he knows it too because there

are tears glistening at the corner of your eyes and he’s

trying to

look

away.

But you drive into him again, his thighs quivering and shaking and wanting more

More

More.

His nails carve angry trails down your arms

Just like your mouth caresses his neck gently, in love

or not, because he cries out and you bit too hard.

(You’re starting to understand, not love, never love.) And your teeth continue to graze his flesh while your tongue traces shivery words

that he can’t hear

that he mustn’t hear you think but then (thrust, kiss, arch, devour),

“Don’t you dare leave me.”

And God he wasn’t meant to hear these words, it’s good, it’s good he’s not listening;

he can’t be, not when his mouth is residing in the hollow

of your throat, and not when his ankles are locked behind your knees.

He wasn’t meant to know because he will never understand the meaning of loneliness not the way you do,

he doesn’t need you, not the way you do, he doesn’t love you

not the way you do.

“And go where?”

It’s said in a murmur against your beating heart

and you know he heard you

just the way he can hear

your heart beat racing up and

oh God you don’t care what the

ghostly whispers say to you at night

when you’re lying wide awake.

So now you know, relish the fact that he’s as desperate as you are,

as lost as you are and you are selfish because you’re burying deeper

inside him, ignoring his cries of pain

Just so you can dispel your own

loneliness.

“I love – ” a hush, a release, a relief cut off by

his lips crashing over yours

and it can’t be uttered,

not that one syllable that holds the weight of

everything

between you.

And there’s something not right because of the way he presses against you,

The way he clings on to you that much harder,

The way his lips linger that much longer,

The way his nails dig in that much deeper and the

way he invites you further into his body

as if

as if

as if there is no tomorrow.

No. You want to tell him he’s wrong,

It can’t be that way not after this,

not ever but he’s gasping

and you’re crying because you’re drowning

and you can’t breathe

and he’s drawing the life out of your lungs

and you don’t care if this is the end

as you keep stumbling

and he keeps clinging

and the world keeps fading

and and and…

“Please.”

Your hearts beat together and this is a significant moment

Or you think it should be, you think

You should say something to puncture this silence;

To chase away the uncertainties tied around your necks, stopping the words you want to say from being uttered.

To brush away the ghosts leering at you reminding you it just

can’t be.

His gaze refuses to meet yours,

the certainty of his fingers upon your skin

replaced by painful diffidence.

His lips murmur apologies,

for what you don’t want to know.

His legs untangle from beneath yours

and he’s moving away and you can’t help it

as you watch with resignation his fingers,

that had clung on to you so desperately

now reaching for his clothes.

You watch with hooded eyes how his body

doesn’t tremble like it did

moments ago.

“flesh betrays, he loves you, lie, you own his soul, lie, lie, lie, lie.”

You turn over your side,

refusing to watch him leave

and trying to decide what should have been said and heard.

Who went wrong and where and how and why

and slumber’s cruel clutches take hold of you and you miss the soft click of the door closing.

This was not a ritual, for those require to be repeated.

And as the early morning light flickers through the grimy windows

You face another day.

Alive.

And alone.

You wonder vaguely whether you’ll see him today,

Whether you might just have to kill him before he does you.

But that’s still a few more moments away, for now

you are safe. They are watching over you.

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Couldn't get the formatting to work. Hop on over to my LJ if you want to see how it really flowed and what it looks like.