dead girl writes words

Tell me about your teeth and your claws and how your breath

“What are these from?” He murmurs, pads of his fingertips tracing over the thick, bumpy tracks of my scars. His touch reverent, his voice low, as if he already knows. I move his hand away and press my mouth to his ear, “They’re from old mistakes.”

There used to be so many other things tumbling through my mind, thoughts full of mindless chatter. Now it’s just Us.

Never trust a man who drops his first "I love you" when he's buried in your soft heat. You already know that what's kept between your legs makes strong men weep and lie. Why is he any different?

I never liked my thighs until i felt your head buried between them

The number drops and brings me closer to you. An inverse relation to my happiness.

I'm ashamed by the things I did/ allowed to be done to me when I was lost directionless and alone.

as the space between your replies lengthens  I start to wonder: am I allowed? the elation sinks, the happiness falters. do I deserve this?

The liquor makes my tongue loose, secrets spilling. And I wait, trembling, for you to bolt.

I used to squeeze my eyes shut when men buried themselves in me, imagining myself anywhere else. How can I want that now?