Lion Head Mesa I'm sorry that I'm misbehaving; I'm your little scarlet, starlet

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Faith.

Equality.

Candor.

Her skin crawled as his lips traced over the very sore he caused. The sore he deepened. The sore that he left, and the sore he promised to leave memory of. The sore he gave attention to. The sore he gave affection to. The sore he caressed now with his mouth. His tongue. His tongue he speaks with, reminds her of, and she thought of nothing but the sick thought of him using it; at that, a pathetic whine.

He was offering to take that from her.

She loved even more when her wings beat against the bars of the cage and they gave out. She loved the suffocating safety of entrapment. She did not want to leave. She did not want choice. That was faith; when she stayed limp in mind. She loved even more when he guided her clipped feathers into flight. That was equality; when she was hanging from his fingers and teeth. When the embers in his chest allowed her to touch him in worship. "No." Bliss was here. That was candor; when he covered her ears and licked up her neck his voice of direction. She knew no other way. She did not want to know another way. His shelter proved itself time and time again.

He wanted to change that?

"I don't like this side of you right now. It's repulsive." She wished to whine to him. She wished to draw blood from his veins. She wished to pull at his limbs. Never. Never. Never did she want to experience change.

How dare he.