Your body is covered in hidden gang tattoos commemorating the first time you felt you belonged, experienced ink in less experienced art shading and blending perfectly with skin like Georgia clay. Hair buzzed evenly to show subtle definition of skull. Your fingers are slender and long, the shape of your nails adding a gentle curve to them that looks almost musical. You like them, but you remember seeing them balled into fists, flecked with blood; and you liked that, too.
You’re in this woman’s apartment and she’s giving you shit for something you said earlier that was probably sexist but she can’t get mad at you for your feelings. You’re forced to sheepishly admit your don’t know how to do a task, but she coaches you through it. You learn.
You grab her ass when she kisses you. This female totally wants this, but she keeps trying to play you. You snap at her, ready to put her in her place. She tells you, “I’m not ready for that. Why can’t I just kiss you because you’ve been sweet!?” Her edge has left entirely, and you can’t remember the last time someone wanted to kiss you for the way you always pay attention to people’s emotions, or the way you blush at a compliment. Your edges melt onto the floor, and you smile.
You tell her about gang life, and leaving it. She strokes your arm while you talk, sitting behind you. You’re afraid to put your hand on hers, but she feels it hovering when she pulls her hand away.
Your hands are sliding up and down her hips while she straddles your stomach. You smile when she blows a raspberry on your cheek. Your fingers that used to ball into fists are now carefully tracing the soft lines that are beginning to form at the corners of her mouth, while hers are tracing the ones forming at the corners of your eyes.
You are remembering every detail.
theartofmadeline
gummygunk
jimmyeatworldofficial
