Tell me about your mother, tell me about the time you lived in that run down apartment and you met a girl named Emily with pretty lips and a salty mouth. Remember fucking her against a dead oak tree in the woods down the street from your mother's work. Tell me about the stale bark and how it spit crimson and wax all down her back...hot and sticky. It made her shake, shift, squirm, and all that did was make your eager body push harder. It made her shirt stick to her hell bitten back and you only noticed when she gasped as you slid your fingers down her spine while walking a half mile back to your mother's work. When she sat down she crossed her scraped and chapped legs (the forest floors aren't forgiving when lovers run.) and you could see the burning in the way she bit her bottom lip til' it bled. Just another crimson stain for your list. she can't breathe though, and your eager body and sprinting feet live in her til' this day. Tell me about moving away a few days later and how you never told her.
Tell me about how when you were eleven you used to steal mail with a girl with raven hair and a belly ring. Her name was Saphire and the only things she knew were sex and fire. Tell about burning the letter with her hands on your shoulders and all it said was "You're a whore, go to hell." more like signature then anything else. Tell me about the fire in your dreams that she taught you about and how you cried every night about the mail and why the girl with raven hair kissed your cheek when you complied with calling her your "bitch". You still think about her, why would you like that kind of shit spit in your ear? Why would you settle for an eleven year old spitting it?
Tell me about x swallowing your tired, dried out vision, and how it made the lights in her eyes so much brighter. How her skin bit yours like heaven and your blood glazed over and you gave your body to the devil. The sex was amazing, and the air was hot, and her sweat was cold and the contrast made every touch a shaking orgasm. Her hair tickled your face with a fluid motion while her hands rippled your hair and all she could say was "God. God. God. Yes." because she was feeling everything you were just as you thought you were. your blood boiled 102 degrees and you almost died from dehydration All she was felt heaven biting her skin because x has a way of moving your skin like sandpaper and making it feel like silk. she didn't feel the coppery touch of your skin peeling hers or the sweat stop flowing.
God, please just fucking tell me how my ribs constantly break and why I used to have 12 and now 8? I still have too many, but they ache with the hope of leaving. Tell me why you're so fucking scared of being alive and finding something you want. Tell me why the passion of your soul slips and breaks like the inconsistent grinding of your hips when you're too fucked up to balance on top so you suggest "Hey can you just give me head?"
Tell me why I say yes,
every fucking time.
no- chokes me up