“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he murmurs into my hair. “Don’t do that to me.”
Whispers it this time?—
“Don’teverfuckin’ do that to me.”
// 9:52 PM //
The second we step inside House of Vice,
November’s gone.
It’s hot, wet, pulsing with music.
Bass punches in, guitars loud and dirty,
drums hitting with closed fists,
the whole building sweating rock-n-roll.
Andrew’s walking behind me,
his hand at my back.
As if he lets go, I might step off another curb.
I still can’t breathe right.
I’m still shaking.
Little Death's breathing down my neck,
creeping under my skin,
sweet and starving,
and I’m trying not to show it,
trying to walk steady.
But my knees feel wrong and not part of me anymore.
Every muscle’s holding tight,
my body’s still waiting for the bus to hit.
The room’s watching us,
their stares dripping down my skin,
slow as sweat.
Every pair of eyes are unzipping me,
tracing my outline,
stitching me into stories,
drawing lines between Andrew's hand
