king of the neon lights
_{wore the crown on friday nights}

I hadn't made it to till the end (usually, I typically do), had found myself faltering while I stared at the little hovering beings - I didn't think that I would be so upset by their presence in Helovia, thought that I could make it to the end and earn what I had been beckoned there for. But rather, a child trots off with the prize instead, and I am left the way I had been previously - alone. The word leaves a sour taste on my tongue, as if I was not meant to be alone the way I am, to feel so lonely even when I had an arsenal of men to choose from - they meant nothing to me, did not care, and neither would I.

Loving a man was unnecessary, a plot I would never wrap myself up in, nothing I could ever force myself into. It was taxing, worrying, I witness broken love and fracturing relationships too often, glimpses of devoted men running to a pussy that won't get attached, won't give him anything or expect anything from him - that's what most of them wanted. Something to hit and then run, something that won't tie them down with unrequited feelings or sickening distance that rips the seams of a deep rooted relationship. I would never fall prey to a man's charms, to his wit and perceptions, there is no illusion he could ever cast to lead me on the way he may others - I am not weak to the feelings of romantic love, puppy love, the kind of love that leaves you vulnerable, an open book to a man who may not stay forever. It is a weakness I will never be able to afford, one I refuse to have.

And so I watch this child take my prize, the product of false love or a fatal fling that ends in a responsibility no one is ready for - I know the latter too well, knowing that neither Volterra or Colt were prepared for a child, let alone two, that they did not know what to do with Sabre and I once we arrived. Volterra was left unaware or willingly fled, and Colt knew nothing of parenting, for her father was not Father of the Year himself. Watching this filly so joyfully leave these strange martians and the rest of the group with her gift, I am boiling with envy, steaming as I turn and march from the crowd with my ears flat against my head and teeth grinding together.

I am not the only one whose blood is boiling, bubblegum drawn to the frantic, wild kicking of a younger pegasus in the distance - he is thrashing his body furiously, rear legs striking at the air, beating into an invisible figure with sure fury that I'm afraid to even get close, but something draws me in. Maybe it's the way his muscles move, how they bunch and release as he strikes out against the nothingness, how his wings sweep over the air to catch his weight and keep him steady, the way the sweat darkens his grullo hide and drips from his brow. Whatever the case, I'm pulled in by the appeal of the bull-horned boy, of the way he moves and the red hot, heavy rage that fills the air as I get closer, thick with jealousy over a lucky child who was still nursing.

I simply watch his outburst, silently approving of the muscle that runs the lengths of his body, over his shoulders, connecting to the wings, his neck as it flexes, the legs that kick out - I can feel the loud, bubbling demands of my body, the young lust that brews between my thighs, that pools in my gut and leaves me itching. I know what I want, and I intend to get it.
"talk talk talk"