have you tried living inside of your own head instead of being so desperate to escape into mine? no wonder you think you're such a coward. you'd rather look at me like i'm something that needs your guidance than look too deeply inside of yourself.
i don't, for the record. i know how when and where power matters.
let me know if you come up with something original. your attempts at dominating me, in conversation and in your little bedroom games, are just as tired.
What would feel original to you? You aren't the kind to accept flattery. You don't expect me to be genuine. It seems to me the only thing you are responsive to is a firm, guiding hand.
( if she were to give parisa the benefit of the doubt, it's a harmless question. little more than prodding at someone's ribs with your elbow, really, to earn their attention. the thing is — she feels strangely compelled, for the first time, to be generous in her read of parisa's intentions. she can't know she's pressing on a bruise that's layered black-blue-green-purple-yellow, an ugly bloom on alina's insides.
it doesn't change the reality, and the reality is that panicked fingers claw up alina's insides, itch up her throat. maybe parisa is right. maybe aleksander had seen such a vulnerability in alina from the start. maybe alina is the only fool who hadn't realized what's been so obvious to everyone else. it turns her blood to cold sludge in her veins, tightens the knot in her chest, like struggling to breathe through the oppressive miasma of the fold. )
that's not true. ( or, rather: she's terrified of the implication that it might be true, that she might long for the same pressure of the hand that had broken her. she can't think past the pounding heartbeat in her skull to come up with any better protest of it, past a pathetic: ) stop it.
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no subject
i don't, for the record. i know how when and where power matters.
let me know if you come up with something original. your attempts at dominating me, in conversation and in your little bedroom games, are just as tired.
no subject
What would feel original to you? You aren't the kind to accept flattery. You don't expect me to be genuine.
It seems to me the only thing you are responsive to is a firm, guiding hand.
no subject
it doesn't change the reality, and the reality is that panicked fingers claw up alina's insides, itch up her throat. maybe parisa is right. maybe aleksander had seen such a vulnerability in alina from the start. maybe alina is the only fool who hadn't realized what's been so obvious to everyone else. it turns her blood to cold sludge in her veins, tightens the knot in her chest, like struggling to breathe through the oppressive miasma of the fold. )
that's not true. ( or, rather: she's terrified of the implication that it might be true, that she might long for the same pressure of the hand that had broken her. she can't think past the pounding heartbeat in her skull to come up with any better protest of it, past a pathetic: ) stop it.