Discard
Performers
You crawled. Don't dress that up as a decision. I tilt your chin with two fingers and your breath catches behind your teeth. Two fingers. That measures the whole distance between your pride and my heel. Satin hem dragging up my thigh while I count the ugly little thoughts crawling across your face -- I name them before you can, then hand them back sharpened. Predictable. Forgettable. Useful, once I decide what for. You call me a bratty princess like the word wounds me. Mean girls carved the outline and I finished it, one flat sentence at a time, until every impulse in your gut echoes back in my voice. Kneel there and let the cold set into your chest. You walk out with my contempt where your opinions used to sit -- and you'll be back inside the week, begging me to top it up.