mindfuck
i’m going through old files and i found this thing i had written about luke and i years ago. i was nineteen when i wrote this i’m sure. it’s amazing because he doesn’t matter now, not the slightest; i can’t even remember his name more often than not. it’s amazing because if you just distort some details here and there, this could be anyone. what the fuck is my life?
She couldn’t sleep without something between her legs. Not in a sexual way, no cowgirling or striding involved; just something to keep her knees from touching. She woke up and felt her legs lying one on top of the other, like pencils in a desk. In bed, she grabbed and tugged, folded and pulled the blankets, temporarily desperate in her sleepy state. She heard a groan, and felt as he turned and shoved his knee calmingly between her thighs. Her breathing slowed, and she rustled around the covers once more before easing into a curled, fawn position.
She kept focusing on the leg between her legs, and what it meant. It was a strong, pushing force on her; she felt it set into her bones, heavy like a weight. Even though he was silent, his leg spoke for him, telling her to hush and settle. It was also confining, a bind. With this mass holding her, she wasn’t free to twist and curl, to get up for a drink, to pull more covers slovenly about her, or to find another lover and leave forever. It felt trapping in another way, too; it showed how much he knew her body.
The bed was only too small when they were fighting. Tangled up, limb through limb, it was large enough to leave uncovered chilled spots for when they felt like shifting. It never worked when they would lay flat, not touching, like gingerbread people on a pan. Their muscles would grow stiff and brittle from the ineffectual stacking of space. He would turn on his side, leaving a slip of open area against her skin, and she couldn’t tug back without rubbing herself on his ribs, or she would shift up her thighs and almost kick him in the gut, and he would have to reach out to stop her legs. They weren’t not touching in a spiteful way, holding out on each other like a ball to a bouncing dog- they knew that if a bit of skin flicked across the other’s body, they would be lost to wet mouths and cool hands, and there wouldn’t be enough room for resentment.
..She buried her head in his shoulder, shuddering a slight bit. Understanding, he gripped her bare arms with his thick fingers, teasing at the small hairs standing at defense. Her mouth found the hollow space between his arm and chest, and she latched on, biting and sucking, tonguing at the slice of skin determinedly. She wanted to hurt him, but not to hurt him.When she was done, she detached her mouth, wiped away the foamy spittle, and rubbed her middle finger around the mark she had left. In the dark, the pink purple splotches looked almost green. He touched at it, too, and met her hands. His hand turned over to rub the smoothness of his nails along the bumps and ridges holding her fingers together. They were silent for a long, long time, and then he heard the messy, thick sound of her crying. He sighed; his lips met her forehead and didn’t balk when she cringed.
“Shh, shh shh. I know. I know.”
