Faith

I am pinned

I am trapped

His arms strap me to this sordid alley wall. His hips (screaming, angular, boy hips) press hard against mine, and—oh God—I can't help it, I whisper his name.

He smirks into the crook of my neck and bone-white teeth graze my skin. Nails claw at my waist.

My fingers are lost in his hair, and lips that are so used to keeping secrets shut tight inside open and crash against mine. White capped waves, flow and ebb.

I am alive.

All the time, we dance like this, skin slicked against each others. We took a love that was good and pure and true and we fucked it up real nice and we're hurting, left with nothing but time on our hands, so we fightfightfight all the goddamn time. And this. Eve had time on her hands, and she was seduced by the devil.

(Idle hands and idle minds are the devil's workshop.)

Did the devil love her back?

I don't care.

This is so perfect in its imperfection that I'd pray if I had enough heart to believe in God to pleasepleaseplease don't let me fuck this all up by falling in love.

I look into his eyes, downcast, hidden by long spider-leg eyelashes.

Are you there, God? It's me. I haven't heard from you in a while.

I don't even know if you're even still there.

This is wrong, I know it. This is hateful and spiteful, but no, it doesn't matter to me. Not anymore.

Because if this is what dancing with the devil is like,

Well then.

I'd rather go to Hell.