He needed, I thought, to be forced open, cracked like a nut, split down the center and bitten. I thought of insect-pinning him in place, screaming things in his ear, peeling the calluses from his hands with my teeth, scratching, clawing, bringing blood. So we kept conversation slow and circuitous. I guess they're the kind of things that ought to be controlled. Like if I were to be sitting here, you know, on the couch, and I were to like.
Impulses are okay.