Key

I tilt my head, focus, and he's looking straight at me. His half-open eyes strike the flint behind my ribs, send a shot of straight aggression to my pulsing midsection. Feral, I ignite. It isn’t fire, but it’s close. This is when I wish he had long hair, so I could pull it harder.

Demonstrations. Things he could do. But he doesn't, and even if he did, we’re moving too fast for the hurt to count. Click click click and it's gone, thrusting weeks into the rear view mirror. It isn’t flying, but it’s close. Time devours pain, processes it, transforms it neatly into nostalgia with alarming efficiency. In a few days, these hours will be beautiful. This is now and now and now and now is nothing.

"Say my name," I growl, and it isn't for the power, it really isn't, of watching all of these smirking sets of lips spread wide and oblige. It's to ground grind ground this into Me, because even though I start out lost and end the same way, in the middle I am endless. In the middle, I am strong, or I can make-believe to be, and that fairy tale is key. Because this is how you fuck when you've got a soul like a half-empty trash can and a heart gone missing. It isn’t dying, but it’s close, god, it’s so close.