Web

It’s the way she sits there in the window, examining the bruises. Her legs are bare. Morning glimmers in over the purple starbursts that my boots have left on her shinbones. There, on the ledge, she is almost arachnid now, perched on long, folded limbs, head tipped to one side, staring out into the street with that unfocused serenity of someone surfing the dregs of an endorphin high. She is stroking a mark of deep, scuffed violet below her left knee. Each time she presses on the bruise, the tingle comes again, tickling the synapses, forcing that memory back into the present. It was like merging. Making her react, just for me. To be so close as to leave an imprint on her skin. I pushed my way into her inscrutable silence and kicked the noise out of her. She needs that release, every so often. Her world is stitched tightly together with the threads that she herself weaves, elbows bent there in the window, delicate like the legs of a spider, web immaculate around her. She likes it torn open. Craves it like cigarettes. I make her cry. I make her cum. I make her mine.

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