i rewrote that shit
I still don't have a title though, wtf me. but like, read it plz, and give me teh concrits, because i actually worked in this for like 3 weeks?
She has this way about her. This frantic grace when she kisses his mouth, dragging her tongue across his lips in ways that could only make his breath catch in his throat. That make his hip bones grind bruises into her thighs.
The lights are off because she is disgusted by herself. Her eyes are closed because she can't stand to look at him. But oh, no one has ever needed this the way she does. Her thighs are aching, when she blinks what might be stars on his ceiling multiply. Her world spins; and every sound caught in either of their throats echoes in her ears. Her nails dig into his back as she feels his teeth on her neck. She draws him closer, closer. And she'd love to say that a part of her isn't wondering who will hate themselves first.
She is a mistake in the making, and she knows this. She knows this like she knows his breath melting into her skin, his fingertips on her arms. His teeth-marks are still on her fucking clavicles. She wears his bruises as walking evidence, something to tell the secret her lips won't betray. But she, she is the walking secret; the traces of skin left purple and blue are just a product of "the moment."
The “moment”-something her mother warned her about. Years ago, before she knew the meaning of “the morning after,” when she held something that might have been compared to innocence, before she understood the depths of the words regret, self loathing. She was so insistent that she would never succumb to such a situation. “I know when to stop.”
"What we're doing," she says between gasps, "isn't making us feel less alone." His eyes grow bored with her tone of voice and his fingers attempt to brush a strand of her hair behind her ears. She slaps his hand away, moving it into what may have, at one time, been private parts. "We're a little past the cute stage don't you think?"
For the slightest moment, her eyes flutter open. He is touching her, and he is staring straight into her face. He is watching her mouth, and the way it opens when he moves his fingers. He might be looking into her eyes, but by now they are frozen shut again--she thinks they haven't quite reached that level of dishonesty yet.
She mumbles unconvincing protests against his forearms but her fingers clench his in that "don't stop" way and she is thinking, right now, that it’s funny how the people she can bring herself to deny are the ones who never comply.
They are a mass of mouths and fingertips melting together in complete darkness. She squeezes her eyes tighter; she imagines she is begging him to fuck the emptiness out of her. He might be trying. He might know exactly what she wants just from the sounds she stutters against his shoulder-blades; or whatever way he always knows where to touch, what to do. But his eyes are closed as tightly as hers, and she is aware that in his mind, she is not even herself.
This is compassionate deception at its finest. He is as deep inside her as he is a million miles away from her. She is a replacement for what (who) he wishes she were; and even still she thinks she might die without him.
She is desperate, not for his touch but the lies behind it. The leftover remorse, clinging to her skin. She will remember that long after the visible marks have healed. If he does not hate himself right now, then she is doing it all wrong.
His breaths are heavy; he takes drags of the air as though he were choking down a morning cigarette. His tongue invades her mouth more angrily, greedily and his fingers grip her wrists more tightly. Mercilessly, she scrapes her nails alongside his spine, giving him something to remember that might cancel out the gashes in her arms or marks on her stomach. She wishes for reminders of his fingerprints, as she sighs satisfaction. Every sound uttered is copied straight from film. She is the best damn liar she's ever met.
He rolls away from her, her pulse slowly steadies, and she opens her eyes. He lights a cigarette and she sucks from the filter with her swollen lips. She passes the cigarette to him, pausing at his shoulders. The pads of her thumbs massage the raised marks where her fingernails dug ragged lines moments before. This scene is heavy with the stench of tragedy, the skin on his back has the distinct taste of hopelessness, and right now she’d kill for some fucking apathy.
He leans into the palms of her hands and she can just see herself walking away. She wants to write down everything she feels and put it inside his pillowcase, but she can’t justify giving him a reason to hurt her. By now her face is nearly next to his, and his lips give the softest kiss to her cheek.
And with that, anything she might have said is irrelevant. Any reason she might have given him to hurt her has been exchanged from her skin to his mouth. He has broken all her rules. Everything has changed, in all the ways she never wanted it to and more than anything, right now, she wants him out of her system.
"God, what time is it? I should probably take you home."
"Yeah... probably." She reaches for her clothes.
She has this way about her. This frantic grace when she kisses his mouth, dragging her tongue across his lips in ways that could only make his breath catch in his throat. That make his hip bones grind bruises into her thighs.
The lights are off because she is disgusted by herself. Her eyes are closed because she can't stand to look at him. But oh, no one has ever needed this the way she does. Her thighs are aching, when she blinks what might be stars on his ceiling multiply. Her world spins; and every sound caught in either of their throats echoes in her ears. Her nails dig into his back as she feels his teeth on her neck. She draws him closer, closer. And she'd love to say that a part of her isn't wondering who will hate themselves first.
She is a mistake in the making, and she knows this. She knows this like she knows his breath melting into her skin, his fingertips on her arms. His teeth-marks are still on her fucking clavicles. She wears his bruises as walking evidence, something to tell the secret her lips won't betray. But she, she is the walking secret; the traces of skin left purple and blue are just a product of "the moment."
The “moment”-something her mother warned her about. Years ago, before she knew the meaning of “the morning after,” when she held something that might have been compared to innocence, before she understood the depths of the words regret, self loathing. She was so insistent that she would never succumb to such a situation. “I know when to stop.”
"What we're doing," she says between gasps, "isn't making us feel less alone." His eyes grow bored with her tone of voice and his fingers attempt to brush a strand of her hair behind her ears. She slaps his hand away, moving it into what may have, at one time, been private parts. "We're a little past the cute stage don't you think?"
For the slightest moment, her eyes flutter open. He is touching her, and he is staring straight into her face. He is watching her mouth, and the way it opens when he moves his fingers. He might be looking into her eyes, but by now they are frozen shut again--she thinks they haven't quite reached that level of dishonesty yet.
She mumbles unconvincing protests against his forearms but her fingers clench his in that "don't stop" way and she is thinking, right now, that it’s funny how the people she can bring herself to deny are the ones who never comply.
They are a mass of mouths and fingertips melting together in complete darkness. She squeezes her eyes tighter; she imagines she is begging him to fuck the emptiness out of her. He might be trying. He might know exactly what she wants just from the sounds she stutters against his shoulder-blades; or whatever way he always knows where to touch, what to do. But his eyes are closed as tightly as hers, and she is aware that in his mind, she is not even herself.
This is compassionate deception at its finest. He is as deep inside her as he is a million miles away from her. She is a replacement for what (who) he wishes she were; and even still she thinks she might die without him.
She is desperate, not for his touch but the lies behind it. The leftover remorse, clinging to her skin. She will remember that long after the visible marks have healed. If he does not hate himself right now, then she is doing it all wrong.
His breaths are heavy; he takes drags of the air as though he were choking down a morning cigarette. His tongue invades her mouth more angrily, greedily and his fingers grip her wrists more tightly. Mercilessly, she scrapes her nails alongside his spine, giving him something to remember that might cancel out the gashes in her arms or marks on her stomach. She wishes for reminders of his fingerprints, as she sighs satisfaction. Every sound uttered is copied straight from film. She is the best damn liar she's ever met.
He rolls away from her, her pulse slowly steadies, and she opens her eyes. He lights a cigarette and she sucks from the filter with her swollen lips. She passes the cigarette to him, pausing at his shoulders. The pads of her thumbs massage the raised marks where her fingernails dug ragged lines moments before. This scene is heavy with the stench of tragedy, the skin on his back has the distinct taste of hopelessness, and right now she’d kill for some fucking apathy.
He leans into the palms of her hands and she can just see herself walking away. She wants to write down everything she feels and put it inside his pillowcase, but she can’t justify giving him a reason to hurt her. By now her face is nearly next to his, and his lips give the softest kiss to her cheek.
And with that, anything she might have said is irrelevant. Any reason she might have given him to hurt her has been exchanged from her skin to his mouth. He has broken all her rules. Everything has changed, in all the ways she never wanted it to and more than anything, right now, she wants him out of her system.
"God, what time is it? I should probably take you home."
"Yeah... probably." She reaches for her clothes.