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Victoire_de_Samothrace_-_vue_de_trois-quart_gauche,_gros_plan_de_la_statue_(2)

the way she moved through you –

sliced into you with the expert precision of surgeon-held scalpel
pressing one hand firmly on the incision to slow the bleeding
just so she could take her time with you,
finding pleasure in the slow burn of your split flesh –

held you transfixed, limboed and floating.

well practiced at stopping time,
she knows just how to hold hands firmly enough to paralyze but not break bones
pausing, for a heartbeat of a moment only,
the anxious shuttling momentum felt when waiting on the perpetual edge of tomorrow.

she cares not for the bulk,
not bones nor tendons nor organs,
but essence:
the rusted smell of wet,
the moan escaping parted lips,
the soft shudder of adrenaline-jacked pain,
the surrender of patient to white coat.

always painted that way,
porcelain and perfect,
she is a study in alabaster ceremony:
obsessively scrubbed clean,
gleaming raw to the touch,
smooth with a curious hardness.

she is mystery,
but contrived and carefully arranged,
ne’er a stroke out of place.

you see, you never stood a chance,
not with your soft middle and easily confused eyes,
not with the way you trusted so easily,
invited so quickly,
opened yourself unhesitatingly.

you handed her the blade, after all,
showed her with shaking finger just where to cut,
pinched thin sliver lips,
nodding yes:
go deeper.

this, all just an exercise in keeping her.

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