(no subject)
i'm doing this thing where i attempt to write every day.
pleassse let me know what you think
Her tongue grazes his neck and he tastes like strawberry and kerosene. She thinks its only fitting, with the way his skin burns against hers, that their bodies will result in some kind of fire.
It's the kind of secret he doesn't bother to keep and the memory of his whispers ("I will hurt you, you know") they hide in her stomach next to that sense of impending doom.
The dread hangs in the back of her throat, threatening to suffocate or gag her.
It is the same way her happiness only serves to reinforce the pointlessness of everything. It is the confliction in her vocal chords as she sighs against his ear and her fingernails versus his spine when his fingertips are on her hip bones. The way that every beginning will only result in an end and the middle is what ends up forgotten.
But fuck, there are patterns on etched on his ribcage from the couch and this kind of internal conflict is best forgotten when his teeth connect with her collarbones. And honestly, it's not even this that makes her forget. It's just the teenage female conditioning that sex is the equivalent of affection, never mind the years she wasted trying to break that pattern. And that is probably wrong, but its the kind of complication she can't be bothered with attempting to figure out, though if you knew her, you'd understand the way her brain obsesses over all of it when she is alone and has nothing to do but think.
It's these fucking thoughts that will be her demise, because maybe every second he's not telling her she's beautiful she is convincing herself she is not, and really what is that worth? She'd be lying if she said she didn't believe him for the most part, just because she trusts him that much. And maybe when he is not around she's staring in her mirror, reminding herself of every blemish, and these are just things to think about while he's opening doors and doing every little thing she ever imagined for herself so she doesn't get too close.
But then he is asleep against her, and his breathing is shallow against her breast or thigh, and maybe she can feel his heartbeat against some part of her that isn't afraid to enjoy this. And his eyes might flicker open for a moment while his hand intertwines with hers as she runs her fingers through her hair. Maybe she has never felt so safe touching someone, and maybe this has never felt so completely right. And maybe no one has ever been so amazing, to her. Maybe, no one has ever been so beautiful. She, really, has never wanted so badly than to just enjoy this. Honestly, it's more like she doesn't know how. But his eyes, and his mouth, and his skin, and especially all of it somehow connected to her, are every reason to try.
pleassse let me know what you think
Her tongue grazes his neck and he tastes like strawberry and kerosene. She thinks its only fitting, with the way his skin burns against hers, that their bodies will result in some kind of fire.
It's the kind of secret he doesn't bother to keep and the memory of his whispers ("I will hurt you, you know") they hide in her stomach next to that sense of impending doom.
The dread hangs in the back of her throat, threatening to suffocate or gag her.
It is the same way her happiness only serves to reinforce the pointlessness of everything. It is the confliction in her vocal chords as she sighs against his ear and her fingernails versus his spine when his fingertips are on her hip bones. The way that every beginning will only result in an end and the middle is what ends up forgotten.
But fuck, there are patterns on etched on his ribcage from the couch and this kind of internal conflict is best forgotten when his teeth connect with her collarbones. And honestly, it's not even this that makes her forget. It's just the teenage female conditioning that sex is the equivalent of affection, never mind the years she wasted trying to break that pattern. And that is probably wrong, but its the kind of complication she can't be bothered with attempting to figure out, though if you knew her, you'd understand the way her brain obsesses over all of it when she is alone and has nothing to do but think.
It's these fucking thoughts that will be her demise, because maybe every second he's not telling her she's beautiful she is convincing herself she is not, and really what is that worth? She'd be lying if she said she didn't believe him for the most part, just because she trusts him that much. And maybe when he is not around she's staring in her mirror, reminding herself of every blemish, and these are just things to think about while he's opening doors and doing every little thing she ever imagined for herself so she doesn't get too close.
But then he is asleep against her, and his breathing is shallow against her breast or thigh, and maybe she can feel his heartbeat against some part of her that isn't afraid to enjoy this. And his eyes might flicker open for a moment while his hand intertwines with hers as she runs her fingers through her hair. Maybe she has never felt so safe touching someone, and maybe this has never felt so completely right. And maybe no one has ever been so amazing, to her. Maybe, no one has ever been so beautiful. She, really, has never wanted so badly than to just enjoy this. Honestly, it's more like she doesn't know how. But his eyes, and his mouth, and his skin, and especially all of it somehow connected to her, are every reason to try.