A black mamba at center circle writhes beneath a unison muscle. She is unexpecting of the attention and intentions of so many appendages at half a glace. Or maybe I am. They cure her anyway and there she is. Fully present and lost beneath vampiric inverses.
Meanwhile, I contemplate whether I’m for or against a glove in a similar situation, where I am her and she is me. I’m always thinking of the science as a screen. She would look on, mining for pleasure inside and outside of the looking-glass cavern. She would spin the wheel once or twice in my direction. We may meet eyes through the black mirror, we may not.
From what I gathered, she was helpless and vulnerable and belonging to all of them and none of them. She didn’t need protection and so there was none. But I do.
We shared that beige apartment before we started trying each other as witches. That queen …