To My Truest Self,
We did well. Asthma has her sweet relief, when the warmth pulses on us. A warmth so hot it chokes the burn in my chest and numbs my emotions.
“Show me where you want it,” the whisper tickled my cheek. My finger traced along her jaw and across her collarbone. Each button fell apart at every press until the fabric slid off her shoulders. The skin over her rib cage sank deep like lines etched on a wall for the minutes not lived. Scars were painted tallies for attempted escapes.
“I prefer surprises,” I said. Our fingers intertwined then locked as rough and smooth rubbed together. From back to belly and gripping to slamming her nails clawed the paint. My sweat rolled down the nape of her neck. It ran cool on her chest and leaped from her skin upon thrust. We convulsed.
The hot air in her throat turned cold beneath my knuckles. I kept pushing in the cold rawness as she bled on my numbness. I wanted it to hurt but it wouldn’t feel. I sucked her juices from my cuticles but I couldn’t taste. The empty is too deep. Asthma… needs more.