[ It's messy like swimming against an illogical forest to escape a wolf with teeth that glint in the dark, messy like breaking for air after diving into a medieval prison to find her eyes intact. The mind is a treacherous thing, she wants to say, most of all her own. But he has balked at enough of her negatives, and she would give him no more reason to doubt her, so instead she huffs when she rests her weight against him to let his fingers be her anchor when she begins with this idea:
If their minds are two rooms with the windows wide open then it's a matter of closing them one by one, which she does, to her own, only to find that his is the next house over that she has no control over. Now, if their two minds are bubbles on the surface of water, it is when the walls collide that they dissolve together to either form a stronger, unified bead, or collapse into nothingness -- this becomes an unwitting invasion -- here in the warehouse with the sun dripping through the roof, she feels the beat of a subterranean industrial fan against her back steadily eroding the pressure of his hands on her skin. And it is messy. Messy like needing to will oneself back into human parameters after disintegrating into a primordial puddle, like reaching for the end of a rope when one is without hands, calling for help without lips to speak with.
There's someone who hisses at the sudden stab of pain in the back of her head, someone who tumbles forward in search of solid ground, and her? She is still searching for herself. ]
no subject
If their minds are two rooms with the windows wide open then it's a matter of closing them one by one, which she does, to her own, only to find that his is the next house over that she has no control over. Now, if their two minds are bubbles on the surface of water, it is when the walls collide that they dissolve together to either form a stronger, unified bead, or collapse into nothingness -- this becomes an unwitting invasion -- here in the warehouse with the sun dripping through the roof, she feels the beat of a subterranean industrial fan against her back steadily eroding the pressure of his hands on her skin. And it is messy. Messy like needing to will oneself back into human parameters after disintegrating into a primordial puddle, like reaching for the end of a rope when one is without hands, calling for help without lips to speak with.
There's someone who hisses at the sudden stab of pain in the back of her head, someone who tumbles forward in search of solid ground, and her? She is still searching for herself. ]