it's an icepick through her skull. lobotomizing in its stature, freezing in its implicationā these conversations take place in stolen minutes she'd rather spend elsewhere. stacked upon false dreams and pseudo hopes that lie useless. dug, drowned, or debilitated underneath imaginary graves. stuck sick beneath her mouth. driving their force against her throat. clawing towards some sort of hope at redemption, but futile in their attempts. [what a way to describe these talks: small in their design, suffocating in their existence ... if the world was a better place, maybe they would've met at a diner.] mari could end it here. cauterize a wound while it's still seeping. burning off loose threads, snipping old strings, leaving blake strung up and waiting for a person she doesn't know how to be. he wants comfort. she's more aligned with being cruel. nothing left in her system to exert out the plush-puppies and soft-rainbows of a situation, and especially not theirs.
BLAKE LANGERMANN [@2scall] : āwill you stay up a little longer? i've still got a full glass.ā
yet, she stays. "so drink it." mari says, but her form settles back into the wear and tear of her seat. one leg propped up, the other dangled down, with her elbow smoothing along the back of the chair. decidedly casual, for a moment that's not, but any vulnerability mari has is locked and loaded behind caged walls. air-lifted and sanctified to a state of pause, just in case. (call it habit.) a pause streamlines through the half-open slant of her mouth, searching for words that don't feel singed at the edges. doused in something dangerous. echoing a history both know, but won't say, and mari would prefer to keep it that way. "it's late." is what she settles on, and flickers her gaze to the ceiling. "you're n ā not tired?"