Crow-Jangles

Little ruby skull. All his thoughts and memories and character, all of it sticky scarlet, swimming about in it’s own demise.

She’d always known he was different. When he cried, the tears would shimmer. Would stick. She’d press her mouth to his eyelids and suck at them. Sour, sugary. His tongue would dissolve against hers in a kiss. A stick of rock. A holiday souvenir. A sherbert dib-dab - dip yourself in me. When things got really hot’n’heavy, it’d be like a lolly-ice. Dripping. Slobbery. Brain-freeze.

Blubbing and bobbing. Bits of brain glistening like sucrose. She sat in front of him, her legs mid-lunge, still. Her hands mid-pose, mid-threat.

Didn’t mean it, baby. Didn’t mean it. Sorry sorry sorry sorry.

Sweet things don’t last. Fucking Grandma mentality - take your time with those sweeties dearie make them last. Go at something too vigorously and it wears down. She held him inside her, all that heat - all that clamping, suffocating possession. Little sweet bone shriveled and shrinking.

What happened, baby?

Anyone can tell you about addiction. Sweet things. Any kind of a good thing. Any kind of an improvement on your own shitty life. Indulge now - yum yum go go go go - indulge now because one day it’ll be gone.

She was forced to scrape the barrel. Had to settle for making him cry and sucking at his sockets till they were red and raw and dry. Had to settle for his kiss, but dissolving - had - done - it was like tasting air. Stale air. It got sour.

You don’t care, She said. You don’t want me anymore, you don’t even try.

He’d stared impassively at her. They’d never done much talking, anyway. Words were flavourless, empty, useless. Yuck.

Struck a blow.

If I can’t have you....

And now he was gloopy. Floor based sweet factory.

She knelt before him, licking at his wound. His little emptied head. Flashes of images of family of ex-lovers of fetish of jobs of ideas of dreams of fear of desire (Not me Not me). Flashes of him. Tasteless. What a shame Oh what a waste of time! Not the sort of thing I usually shove in me gob.

She spat him out. Shovelled him up, emptied it back in, sewed him back up. Good as new. On your way young man.

And just like that, he wanted her again.

Bloody typical.