ib.i (inspiring art from @marinusj) / it was almost impossible...

ib.i (inspiring art from @marinusj) / it was almost impossible to make people understand this life she had chosen. she had tried once before, when she’d been granted respite from her milk weeping walls, from the chill that only one of the others could drive away by sharing her warmth, when she’d gone home to her mother and tried to make her see the liberation in the debasement she’d embraced. her mother had grabbed her hair in a balled fist and pulled her head into her enormous, squishy breasts, almost as though she wanted to smother her, and held her firm. she had felt the heaves of her mother’s sobbing, even felt the wet of her tears on her scalp, it was a motherly embrace, an embrace of care and concern, but it wasn’t an embrace she could stand any longer. it was too clean, too clothed, to one sided. there wasn’t a shared need that lent itself to reciprocity. there was selfish judgement on her mother’s side that was bound up in her mother’s caring and bored indifference was all she had on her own. / she’d spent as much of that break from her lovers in the tub as she could manage, simply luxuriating in the cleanliness she would soon cast back off in the gloriousness of dirt and detritus and semen and vaginal lubrication and urine and blood. to be clean in the ways she’d once been taught were civilized – ladylike – then to cast it aside for a cleanliness of spirit was a delicious juxtaposition that would have made her touch herself if it wouldn’t have diminished her time away. / but without the lust milk that sweat its way from the pores of her cell to her tongue to her throat to her bloodstream, she’d keep her fingers away from her cunt and save herself for whomever awaited her return. / she had only spoken with her mother once more on that last visit: to say goodbye.