it follows closely on the moment of brain-numb ecstasy, the weary afterglow turning in an instant to revulsion. the after.

when all there is is a length of pyrex, laughably inadequate, or the thing that buzzes, and no warmth - no body beside to comfort, no arms to wrap around in reassurance that it's alright and everything is as good as it feels - in the darkness lit only by the PC screen, music loud to drown out the buzz, there is nothing but senseless guilt, self-disgust, and weariness. this is not how it should be. but this is how it is.


  • Luna Kay
  • Wocket

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