Super Magick

Pulling me back in again. It's super magick. You're a magnet. I disdain so much about your frame, but it's magnetic. You're too short, the muscles that exist in your torso are like you're trying too hard. You don't fill out a tux well, and I think you know. I think you try to make up for that with moves of malevolence that only I can see. It's super magick, but I don't think I'm supposed to enjoy this or be - or even pretend to be - amused by your constant assaults. I'm not supposed to act like I don't care when I hate you. I'm not supposed to, I'm not supposed to, I'm so tired of supposed to. I'm not supposed to hate you, but I do. I'm not supposed to stand by my Sunbird after midnight in the driveway of your house on Osbourn Street under the bright white moon, but I do. I'm not supposed to roll my window down for strangers, but you weren't a stranger. I shouldn't have followed you, but I did.

I shouldn't have had to dance with you in front of everyone, but I did. I did have to and we did talk with each other - so much said, threatened and implied by our latin motion, the way the way our hips moved and knees bent and turned inward then shifted, engaged our cores which tightened everything. Tightened our frames. My arm resting on yours and you felt everything I was saying. Your right palm over my left shoulder blade, holding my palm with your other - his frame is so weak, weak, weak - the only thing I could hear. Why is it only the weak one who wants me? Trying so hard to find the power in that at seventeen - in over my head and completely alone.

Prompt song: Super Magick: Better Than Ezra