Re: Promenade; Elevator
This Lilith did not know what made its home beneath the milk-bone of the bride, in the bloody ficiform wreckage. There was desire there, some tenebrous tendrils that tangled ribs and daisies together, it was carved into the shape of a heart, human, certainly, had wooden ventricles, and it pumped and it clacked. There was little else, but that was there. It was not a many-headed snake, it did not wasp and beg for consummation, but it was there.
The lurid stretch of skin until it was nearly transparent over corded muscle, the engorgement of throat, and the subsequent suffocation was witnessed again with prurient eye and the tip of toe. But the openness was not stirring. There was no want there, only passivity, a reception of the necessary punishment with little relish. She did not fight.
The spit on the head of her match did nothing to dampen the bride’s wedding day spirits. She dropped the little stick to the floor of the lift, to bare feet rucked raw. Wet phosphorus smacked ironwork. mixed saliva and blood. It might have burned elsewhere, but not here.
The blister pink of lips said naught of God. They smiled.