#first draft oops

I wanna go through a thousand moments in which I feel his grip tighten on my hand whenever I pull him towards something— a tulip growing on the street, the smooth skin of the lake’s surface, a window displaying cute trinkets. His hand is warm and engulfs mine, with just a dash more pressure now that I’m laughing and tugging him along. He always did that: squeezed my hand a bit harder whenever I was carefree and let loose. I just thought it was him loving me in the ways a partner normally would.

Then there were- of course- times I had to leave. He’d reluctantly release his hold on me, before trailing his fingers down my arm and leaving a sea of fire burning in the wake of his touch. “I need you to come back to me as soon as possible,” he’d always breathe— those familiar, clear, pink and blue sunset irises ablaze in self-centered determination. Warning signs I overlooked. Instead of listening to the alarm bells, I caressed the smooth skin of his cheek, gazed into his big doll eyes as he whined, “Cutie, don’t go yet…”

I wanna see my “yes” turn into a passionate storm of spit-filled kisses. I wanna get lost in him as Rafayel relishes in my naivety, my touch, my guileless love, licking up my neck senseless, his teeth scraping against my fragile windpipe. …This happens a hundred times, a candied obsession dressed up deceptively simple under the label of a relationship.

The first time he bites down on my clavicle— he draws blood. I gasp, but even as I push him away, he smiles. Because it’s too late. The cage has been locked shut, and there’s nowhere for me to go besides into his embrace. When my eyes meet his, his smile is bloody.