When you say you’ll be over soon, I want to say that you can only come over if you promise to communicate. Instead, I say, “bring wine.” When you ask red or white, I say for you to pick. Red; red means purple mouth like bruises still fading out.
We are existing in that tense before-the-end.
Holding one another for hours. I don’t know why it makes me so anxious to lie there in silence; I’m flinching away from intimacy like it had any intention of being rough with me.
I don’t know if I really like it rough anymore or if I’m scared I’ll break under soft touch. We are breaking, but I’m still keeping you close enough to draw blood. Continue reading “Missed Communication | Torii Johnson”