𝕮hapter four.

You / Loonie / have a god complex the size of mount Everest. You're stable on your feet but the board beneath quivers at the mere sight of the wall of water your eye seeks. As your hands break the surface propelling you forward a smile reveals itself / the same smile reserved for me / it's exhilarated and beautiful and it wraps me up in this whirlwind of affection so I can no longer see the wave you're cascading down.

I wonder what you think of?

Because all I see is doom. I see your demise. Mother nature is not kind- it is not your friend, nor is it on your side. It doesn't take well to boys who believe they're invincible. It wants to prove you can bleed, prove you are mortal- prove it to you, to the gods above, to the others out there edging you on- pulling you into their cult culture of riptides and waxing boards and early mornings and frightful weather.

Because no matter what you might think- you are no son of Poseidon. You can not breathe underwater, you do not have gills, nor can you control the waves. The day you don't resurface will be the day you leave my heart beneath slick rocks or buried deep in cold sand / like Eva's Canadian mind, longing for snowfall- for sharp winds to undo her long braid as she soars one more time through the air / which I know is the last thing you want.

For when you're not out in the sea you're with me. We're hand in hand and we're passing notes. Sometimes in math class your hand is on my thigh and although I try, I can't concentrate on anything else but your fingers and warm palm resting on my thin stockings. Because, shit! It makes me ache and my breaths short and my core clench. Because I want skin on skin, and I want your pearly whites threatening to pierce my cherry lips. I want and I want. And you're too willing to give.

Will I take too much?

You will tell me if I do, right?

You say I will, and the lie lingers on my tastebuds / I ignore the offensive taste / because it's like the secondhand smoke my mother blows my way when I get on her nerves, and I don't want to think of her when with you.

A midmorning, double math lesson is hell. The teachers / an earthly man in his early twenties, a former culprit of my profoundly sexual daydreams / voice drones on and on about god knows what! And concentrating is difficult enough when you're here, let alone when you are not. A drifting mind leads to dark places. Darker than the depths of the ocean I imagine you being swept out too. Alone, you're becoming burley for sharks with sharp teeth, your beloved board washes up to shore and you're gone. Or perhaps your father has snapped at your silver tongue and decided to give you what you owe / you owe appreciation, and softness, and affection- the same as any human being / but I know your father has a different idea.

The trepidation in my gut is making me ill and I have to excuse myself from class. Your friend from the beach looks, stares even. With his girlfriends hand wrapped up in his- he couldn't care less. And for once I'm the one leaving cresent moons in my palms.

Feet pound the asphalt finding their way to the outskirts of this little costal town. All I can think of is the worst. Perhaps your death will be man made? How will your father cover it up? An axe accident? Perhaps he will say; Yes officer, my son; Ivan was chopping logs and it hit the wood wrong and... came back, oh god! It came back... A slightly crooked house enters my sight and my eyes eat it up like a starved dog.

Your father's beat up car is not here so I enter. It's serial killer silent. I hurry past drained beer bottles and smudes of white powder to your room at the back of the house. Your closed door taunts me. He's not inside it says, he doesn't want you to know where he is, he's found another girl with pretty eyes and love to spare.

A gust of wind outside creaks the door open I take that as an invitation and step inside the familiar room. I'm breathing heavy for all the wrong reasons. It's a mess and not the usual clothes strewn about and bedsheets on the floor type, but tabletop items and shattered glass and the things left broken after a fight type of mess. Eyes catch his golden hair and my selfish heart beats properly.

He's yours Carla. Don't fret.

He's dead to the world, face buried in a pillow- my pillow. Baby blue and worn in. Breathing in the scent of red camellia and unholiness. My hands find the edge of his bed, matress warm like he's just rolled over- I grip it tightly. His breath on my fingers / such a simple thing / brings blood to my face. My hand finds his cheek and thumb feels a busted lip. Encompassed with the desire to inflict the same pain on the man who did this was like walking through a lavender garden, fucking overwhelming.

Cerulan eyes lull me from images of unleashing an untamed doberman onto his father. Screams for mercy would be dulled by my laughter and his delight. He would be free from the maddening buzz of insects and weeds would bloom into wildflowers. We would make Ares lust for more, more blood, but Aphrodite would be proud.

Loonie is pulling me down. Grip pleading, drinking up the sight of concern in my eyes. I don't resist, this is what we both want and there are no stockings to separate hands from skin today. Inhale deeply to stop the mind from spinning. He's a boy / just a boy / of salt and- oh!

This is no fever dream. 

He laps up pools of nectar and I moan a hymn meant for his ears only. Gods advert their eyes as a hollow, scared girl begins to feel whole, and a boy discovers he likes feeling so mortal. It's a privacy they deserve.

━━ 𝕸.
this is why i love writing 'poetry'
cause you can write pretty sex scenes
w/o feeling like your going straight
to hell :)