"Believe for once," you said, in hushed tones, your hand in my hair, twisting the curls on your finger. "Believe in us," your mouth moving over mine, still speaking as your lips slid to my jaw and down my throat. "Believe in what I'm telling you, in what our future will be, in all that I swear will happen." "Believe in me," you whispered, your face between my breasts, our bodies still wrapped around each other, skin touching, as we breathed in counter-point. "Believe when I tell you I cannot imagine life without you, that all I want on this earth is to be held in your arms, to hear your heart beat, to have your scent surround me." "Believe," you asked, and I answered with blind faith until she called to tell me of your betrayal, and it was then I noticed the core of the word believe is lie.
6S - C1
Quin is the nom de plume of a woman born and raised in New Orleans, who spent time in Colorado and later in Utah (where theater was discovered and taken to heart). Her children are loved forever, a terrier sleeps at her feet, and words ache to escape onto paper. Her version of life in New York is here.