'Every woman adores a fascist.'—Sylvia Plath
She sobs and thrashes from where I have her pinned down between my legs and I slap her as my hand cracks across the sharp hollow of her cheek and all there is for a second is her sharp exhale and the sting of my hand. It sounds like a fight. Sometimes it feels like one. But it’s sex. Just sex.
Then she’s there, under me, glaring at me as a small stream of blood creeps from her nose to her mouth. She’s laughing as her tongue creeps up toward the small red trickle like a fugitive, licks it away. She likes this. She doesn’t take her eyes off me as she breathes slowly, deliberately, deeply. She wrenches her arm free and takes my hands in hers. It sounds like love. Sometimes it feels like love. Sometimes it is.
She brings our hands to her throat, hers over mine. She puts my trembling hand against her windpipe and tightens hers over it. Her pulse is in my palm, and for the first time, I understand invasions, killing, war, understand why ownership is everything, possession. She squeezes my hand harder, forces a tighter grip against her breath. She never takes her eyes off me as she whispers ‘I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart.’
I open my mouth and reply and ashes, bones, small tongues tumble out; burned books fly from my throat; my tongue changes into boot leather. Her bloodied nose is the red of a flag an almost-century ago. Her blood is the color of all human blood and I can’t see anything. I’m blinded by her laugh that sounds just like rocks being thrown through windows."