Clarice.
Outside the stars are turning.
I park the car in my own driveway.
Because Clarice lives in the house next door to mine.
Walk over to her front door, through the dark living room, up the stairs.
Clarice is not lying in a messy heap on the floor anymore. Instead she is sitting on her bed, staring out in front of her and her tears have dried away and she’s not doing anything at all.
“Jesus, Clarice” is all I can say and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing as I stride across the room, all the way over to her bed and I crush my lips onto hers and it takes Clarice about two seconds before she starts to kiss me back, tongue over lips, tasting, licking, connecting, kissing deeper and deeper, raising her hands up to my cheeks, going straight for the outline of my jaw line, feeling them up with her fingers that are not made for piano playing.
Clarice loves bones.
She trails her fingertips up to behind my ears, tangles them into my hair, makes me lose myself in the taste of her mouth, her lips, as she keeps tugging at my hair and edging me closer, until I’m almost on top of her.
Clarice doesn’t say a word, I can’t even hear her breathe.
I get on top of her, my knees by her side and break away from the kiss to look into her eyes for a minute. Clarice isn’t crying and her eyes don’t seem so hollow anymore, but that’s only how I want to interpret it. It’s good enough for me. She doesn’t look as if she wants to die right now and it’s good enough for me.
Because she turns me on so much and the faint trace of her cologne makes my head spin.
I kiss her nose, I kiss her eyelashes and I kiss the L-shaped edges of her jaw lines, all the way down to her neck and Clarice likes it because a soft, but weary moan escapes from her lips.
She tells me “Please.. please be..” and I sigh and say “Jesus, Clarice.” and make her moan again, louder this time.
I’d been expecting chaos and destruct when I watched Clarice take off her clothes. Clarice is lying on the bed in front of me now and she’s naked. There is not a single line of red edged into her skin. No faded scars, no bruises, no cigarette burns, no evident scarring from erasers or razors or safety clips or belt buckles or glass or acids.
Her skin is creamy white and soft and flawless like the skin of a model in a magazine.
The only flaw Clarice has is her oblivion and her dead hollow eyes and two bruised wrists that stand out brilliantly against the rest of her perfect skin.
I take her hands up to above her head and kiss her.
Because I don’t know what else to do.
Because I want to make Clarice feel like she’s worth something.
But Clarice doesn’t appreciate it. Because she wants to fuck.
At least, that’s what she wants me to think.
And it works for me.
Because Clarice turns me on in all her selfish agony and imperfection.
So I go along with it and pretend not to see the “please” that is formed on her lips but isn’t ever audible. And I take my own clothes off and let her kiss the tattoos that cover my hands and the rest of my body and I let her fingertips feel me up all the way to across my back, until I can’t behold myself any longer and attack her lips with mine again, kissing her harshly.
I don’t care if it’s hurting her, because I hate Clarice, because I don’t know how to make her better.
Because Clarice lives in the house next door to mine.
Walk over to her front door, through the dark living room, up the stairs.
Clarice is not lying in a messy heap on the floor anymore. Instead she is sitting on her bed, staring out in front of her and her tears have dried away and she’s not doing anything at all.
“Jesus, Clarice” is all I can say and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing as I stride across the room, all the way over to her bed and I crush my lips onto hers and it takes Clarice about two seconds before she starts to kiss me back, tongue over lips, tasting, licking, connecting, kissing deeper and deeper, raising her hands up to my cheeks, going straight for the outline of my jaw line, feeling them up with her fingers that are not made for piano playing.
Clarice loves bones.
She trails her fingertips up to behind my ears, tangles them into my hair, makes me lose myself in the taste of her mouth, her lips, as she keeps tugging at my hair and edging me closer, until I’m almost on top of her.
Clarice doesn’t say a word, I can’t even hear her breathe.
I get on top of her, my knees by her side and break away from the kiss to look into her eyes for a minute. Clarice isn’t crying and her eyes don’t seem so hollow anymore, but that’s only how I want to interpret it. It’s good enough for me. She doesn’t look as if she wants to die right now and it’s good enough for me.
Because she turns me on so much and the faint trace of her cologne makes my head spin.
I kiss her nose, I kiss her eyelashes and I kiss the L-shaped edges of her jaw lines, all the way down to her neck and Clarice likes it because a soft, but weary moan escapes from her lips.
She tells me “Please.. please be..” and I sigh and say “Jesus, Clarice.” and make her moan again, louder this time.
I’d been expecting chaos and destruct when I watched Clarice take off her clothes. Clarice is lying on the bed in front of me now and she’s naked. There is not a single line of red edged into her skin. No faded scars, no bruises, no cigarette burns, no evident scarring from erasers or razors or safety clips or belt buckles or glass or acids.
Her skin is creamy white and soft and flawless like the skin of a model in a magazine.
The only flaw Clarice has is her oblivion and her dead hollow eyes and two bruised wrists that stand out brilliantly against the rest of her perfect skin.
I take her hands up to above her head and kiss her.
Because I don’t know what else to do.
Because I want to make Clarice feel like she’s worth something.
But Clarice doesn’t appreciate it. Because she wants to fuck.
At least, that’s what she wants me to think.
And it works for me.
Because Clarice turns me on in all her selfish agony and imperfection.
So I go along with it and pretend not to see the “please” that is formed on her lips but isn’t ever audible. And I take my own clothes off and let her kiss the tattoos that cover my hands and the rest of my body and I let her fingertips feel me up all the way to across my back, until I can’t behold myself any longer and attack her lips with mine again, kissing her harshly.
I don’t care if it’s hurting her, because I hate Clarice, because I don’t know how to make her better.