The History of a Lemon Blossom
content disclaimer: physical abuse
With a swift motion, she stripped before him.
There was no room for shame.
She had known this moment would come
ever since daggers no longer feared power.
The violence of her movement
made a raw shame bloom inside him,
pushing him to lunge
with greater brutality.
She did not moan.
She did not scream.
She did not call for help,
nor plead,
nor beg.
The veins of her silence
coiled around his neck—
Her defiance spilled
like rose petals down his throat.
He felt himself rise,
thin as smoke,
gathering in a corner of the ceiling.
Watching.
Being watched.
His strong body trembled, swayed,
hips moving with the senseless insistence of a weary drilling machine mocked by the hardness of earth, the softness of its sand.
Strength faded,
rhythm slowed,
but still he persisted.
Arms fell away,
stomach shrank,
legs dissolved,
head rolled from his neck,
eyes fixed
on the tightening of his chest
until it expelled his heart.
From beneath his fragments
she emerged.
Stood.
Leapt in small, light bursts,
avoiding the slick black fluids,
and wrapped herself
in her nakedness.
Her departure swept the room
like a storm,
leaving behind
the scent of lemon blossoms,
and everything else—
white ash.
