Toby

An easy persuasion. Two taught words – French ones – and I buckled in our motel bed. Nothing happened. United in suspicion. My sister. Step-sister. Manipulation on TV only. If it happens it’s magazine worthy. Other names for it. We found nothing, then chances and kissed by your car and car parks and you, watching me walk, walk, and after, kisses and careful dressing. Bargaining. Pawning sisters’ rings for what we wanted. Getting it. Waiting. Steering courses. Mapping unmapped territories. Cheating. Making you cheat. Four French words. Apprenticeships. Watching windows. Unclear motives. Emily lying, you making her lie and ostracising. And sure of it, comfortable with it. My evidence. Clues. Hidden slips in dolls’ heads. Outskirts and doctors, after you and after you. An unhealed arm. Unsure alternatives. An almost and momentum. Burnt pictures. Sisters. Step-sisters. Boyfriends they bring home. The killer’s someone you know. Scream taught you that. Urban Legend. I Know What You Did Last Summer. I don’t. Don’t know what now. Last phone call. Replacing digits. A strange memory. Could’ve. Can’t. Quite. Cramming. Cardinal. Salacious. Didn’t. Doesn’t. Don’t. Drive. You are the scaffolding my heart required and you are the screwdriver. Demolition crew and the dust.

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