“Emerald Cut”

Black and white.

Sepia.

Dark.

Hurt.

“This will make it better, baby.”

A cool swipe, a sharp prick.

RushRushRushRushRushRush

Colors erupt from my eyes.  I blow rainbow kisses from between my lips that skate across the palms of my six or eight . . . or ten hands.

Peacock feathers for hair.

A kaleidoscope dances all around me, prisms of light refracting from his emerald cut eyes.

My ten hands caress his baby-smooth cheeks, stroke his pouty lips.

Falling, falling, away from him.

No!

Gossamer ribbons of every hue, silk and smoke, slip through my grappling fingers . . . taking my emeralds away.

“Shh . . . ride it, baby.”

Murk swallows the rainbows, and I float on soft undulating waves of well-being, enrobed in womb-like bliss.  I slip into darkness . . .

Heaviness . . . aching . . . wanting . . .

My eyes open to the stale-smelling room with the dirty mattress.

The guy slumped against the wall is all wrong.

Dark skin, hair.  Lids flutter open . . . no emeralds.

“I need to go again.”

“You’ve had enough, sweetheart.”

Not yet.  Not yet.