Teacakes

I see this girl working bar, she's in a corset and dark jeans and she's got this first-day grin like she just joined the crew at Disneyland. The Chicago Rose bdsm dungeon is playing mostly 90's tonight, it's all NWA deeptracks as she looks up from under massive dark eyelids at the weirdo parade ordering soda and BYOB. She pulls their drinks from a beat-up old fridge with this giddy shyness, but her eyes look burned over, like fireplaces in old buildings, embers casting shadows on stone. I'm reminded of the silence of ruins.

 

Later as I've got her sitting on a spanking bench so I can do this meditation thing I do where I ritually taste her energy (normal), I step inside her and I find a Victorian castle-manor on a hill inside her heart. Beneath its foundation, crypts, ancient and gray, and a hidden tap behind a pane of stained glass. Because I'm presumptuous, I break the glass, and the tap opens without being touched. I'm flooded with an ocean of sweet blackberry blood, the sweetest thing I've ever tasted, flowing from a reservoir I don't understand.

 

She offers me more of herself than she has. 

 

A few weekends later, she's made finger cakes for our tea party event, with blackberry jam and lots of icing. The taste is the same, now in the flesh. They taste exactly like her. 

 

under a waxing moon,

even the girl's tea cakes 

corpse-pale, blood red