If You Tell Them What They Want

In Books, The Truth Makes Everything Good And Fine. The Good Prevail. The Wicked Are Punished. There Is Happiness. But It's Not Like That Really, Is It?" "no," I Say. "i Suppose It Only Makes Everything Known.

That's What Living In Their World Is-a Big Lie. An Illusion Where Everyone Looks The Other Way And Pretends That Nothing Unpleasant Exists At All, No Goblins Of The Dark, No Ghosts Of The Soul.

Any Librarian Or Scholar Will Tell You: Close Is Not The Same As Accurate.

It's Only His Thumb Brushing Slowly Across The Lower Edge Of My Lip, But It's As If Time Slows And The Sweep Of That Thumb Below My Mouth Takes Forever. It Is No Spell That I Know Of, But It Holds Such Magic, I Can Scarcely Breath. He Pulls His Hand Away Fast, Aware Of What He's Done. But His Touch Lingers.

How Can My Ankles And Arms Be Obscene?