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tb | jesus loved me this i know

dreamhugs in louisasissytom

congratulations on the mess you made of things. (my love is better.)
tom, tom/sissy, tom&louisa. (sissy/louisa.)
cruelty, harassment/character & plot spoilers for the second half of the book.
title from tv on the radio's 'dlz'.

'you're so good, aren't you?' he says, words curling up at the edges. 'so relentlessly good.'

she purses her lips, glances up with her dark eyes. 'you're drunk,' she says. 'go to bed.'

'come with me,' he says, the sneer like something carved into stone.

'i'll not say it again,' she says, each word a measured dose, tidy as a nurse.

he laughs and stumbles up the stairs.


he dreamt of her once, of her small dark hand reaching out to him.

he spins the tale to harthouse, tells him of stolen kisses, of throwaway girls.

'you'll never matter to her,' he says, like a marksman. the only thing he ever truly loved was cruelty. even himself, he grows tired of, tries to blur his edges with whisky.


spit out the embers of all that's left, they'll only burn away your paper self.

she's wiping away the tears he left on his sister's face. doesn't he deserve the softness of her thumb against his cheek, too?

(he knows the answer, but the bottom of this glass doesn't, the bottom of this purse.)


she waited to swan-dive off her pedestal, he tried to hack it to pieces.

and perhaps that girl did better for not having one, perhaps louisa builds it as he tries to drown her picture in her head, smother it with pound notes.

(he only has two remedies, two sorts of medicine. he tried to get them knocked out by the husband of a woman he never loved (dark-haired, an irrelevancy), but he ran. they never taught him bravery beside that blackboard and those cabinets. perhaps in another house he never would've had to learn.)


he's seeking what he never had, all the bright colours of a circus or a casino, and he never sees what he did have, what hid at the edges of the ring. something to live for other than the moment.

(oh, this lie he tells himself in the rain and the dim light of dawn. he was never that stupid. he never deserved those things either.)


louisa looked for love in all the wrong places, he never looked at all. he ran.

(except in the deepest dark, the drunkest tiredest hour, when her face floats like a lady in the lake, a myth. even then he cannot hope. he supposes he never could. hope is the last refuge of the fool.)



April 2011

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