the words drip and curl over her tongue until they’re shaped, hard — sharp. soft delicacies pushed into harsh pin pricks. the warmth that threads between the soft brushes of your skin can hardly cancel out the coiling string of barbs that bleeds from her mouth, like little stabs, like little knives that fall on tuned ears.
they have you shaking.
it’s never like this with anyone else.
things i shouldn’t be doing at five am: