Barbie Bray

I’d wait for a kiss on my hand or forehead, whichever seems more appropriate for your kin.

I’d hold out long enough for you to notice my affection and how clammy your words (or lack there of) make the backs of my knees, even if that meant telling you to feel them.

I would bide my time until you note how sour my taste for you had turned, letting you smell my breath afterwards.

I’d wait for you to realize how uncomfortable your guilt makes me feel, the hives on my neck starting to whisper sweet nothings to me.

I’d wait for you to sleep in your bed with someone else, fucking them, while still thinking of me. Wishing it was me.

I’d wait for you to come back to me, even if that meant hurting myself. Over and over again.