He used to flinch as I pruned myself- who pours boiling oil down their own ramparts? But my blossom bruises needed watering somehow. My scar-streaked body was barely worthy enough to be an object. A chair. A vase. A frame.
One drunken night he shouted, “You’ve made me want you and now I’m fucking weak! I fucking hate you for it!! I hate you because you could be phenomenal, and you’re fucking wasting it by giving yourself to everyone!!!”
With a fistful of hair he dragged me to the wall and threw me against it, and as my temples flared with hot throbbing, a virgin fear germinated and fevered my mind; a foreign shame I had never before allowed through security.
We both broke down on the side of our sex. I sobbed like a child until his shoulder was salty; soaked. My masochistic ache for brutality had been satiated, but that night for the first time, tear-stained in his lap, I allowed myself to indulge in the light-side-of-the-moon fantasies I’d stifled; trampled. For the first time, I granted resurrection to the faint ghost desires locked away in ancient crypts.
Spank me, choke me, hit me, restrain me- I’ll come for you once. Cuddle me, tuck me in, kiss my forehead, bring my rabbit stuffie- I’ll come twice and thrice from the long-denied tenderness, from that softly erotic touch I’d thought too gentle to deserve.
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