I call you Persephone, Not them, Me. I know what you carry beneath the white clover and dew. I know you’re not just bloom and youth. He’s got my wrists pinned hard above my head. Bedframe slamming, walls thin, the whole house shaking in the bed. Skin slick and burning, rough and unkind. And I look past his shoulder, past the blind, Straight through the kitchen window, down the slope, And there you are. Kneeling in the tall grass where the wild things are. Daisies tangled in your fingers, sunlight in your hair. You don’t know I’m watching. You don’t know I’m there. And every time he drives in deep, I’m breathing your name where he can’t hear a peep. Where he can’t hear a peep. He bites my lip hard and I don’t make a sound. Wondering if he’d break me if he knew what I found. If he knew your taste is the one I’m chasing there, Sweet, wild, yours, everywhere. Every push, every grind, every heavy breath, I’m seeing you kneel there, quiet, unbreached, fresh. It makes my hips arch harder. Makes my chest heave fast. The closer he gets, the more I stare through the glass. Because it’s not him I’m feeling. It’s you. It’s always been you. And the more innocent you look, the more it burns, The more I want to be the one who turns Your quiet world upside down, who pulls you in, Who knows the dark that lives beneath your skin. Persephone, my sister, my sweet fatal thing. I know you’re the blade and I’m pressing in. I know you’re the quiet that kills the loudest sin. And I’d still lean in, I’d still let you in. I’d still let you in. It’s not the violence that thrills me, it’s how gentle you are. How you don’t even know you’re the fatal star. He can bruise me black and he can bruise me blue, But no one destroys me the quiet way you do. One is fire, one is rain. One is hurt, one is the stain That never washes, never fades, never lets go, You’re the root, Your the root, the bloom, the undertow. He rolls off me heavy, already half-asleep. Mumbles something, rolls toward the wall, deep in sleep. And I’m still watching you, still trembling, still raw, You stand up slow, brush the grass off your drawers. You don’t look away. You don’t run. You turn straight for the house, flowers still clutched in your hand. I hear the screen door creak open. I hear your footsteps on the stairs, slow and sure. One flight, Two, Down the hall. And then the door handle turns. And there you are. Standing in the doorway, sunlight fading behind you. Flowers still in your hand. And you lock the door. Behind you. You walk to the bed. You don’t ask. You don’t hesitate. You set the flowers down on the nightstand. And you climb in. Right over him, careful not to wake him. Right to my side. And your hands, soft, warm, never touched by anyone but me, They slide around my waist. And you kiss me. Slow. Deep. Like you’ve been practicing it your whole life. Like you knew exactly where to go. And I taste wildflower and honey and rain on your tongue. Nothing rough, Nothing forced. Just yours. Just mine. No slamming bedframe, no bruises, no bite, Just two bodies that were always meant to fit right. You slide slow over me, careful, reverent, true, And I know I’m ruined forever because of you. No violence, no shouting, no sin that shows, Just sister on sister, and the whole world knows. I reach for the sharp edge of the nightstand. Press it hard into the soft of my palm. Hard enough to bloom red. Hard enough to understand: If he knew about this, if he knew about you, This bruise would be a break. So I’ll break it myself first. Before he gets the chance. I press harder. Feel it give. Sharp, clean, mine. The pain cuts through the quiet. It’s not punishment. It’s proof. That I know what I’m doing. That I know what this costs. And I choose it anyway. I waited for you. I didn’t know I was waiting. But I was.
