11.25.17
8:03.
He's three minutes late.
He's standing me up.
He knows what I want and he isn't going to give it to me.
More minutes pass, his car pulls up, an awkward feeling of relief.
It's just like old times.
Hours pass.
I don't remember what time it happens at. Mentally I say "fuck it" and lean in and kiss him.
I pull away quickly, surveying his reaction.
Aloud, I say "fuck it" and press my lips to his once more.
I don't feel anything.
Have I ever, though?
This isn't anything new.
So I keep going with it, kissing him longer, longer than I ever did when we were together.
His neck became a canvas for my lips to paint upon.
An eruption of blue and purple ornament it now.
It's nearing 1 a.m., then surpassing 1 a.m.
I point this out.
"And what does that mean?"
"It's bedtime," is my reply.
"I think sleep can wait."
Once again, my hint is not taken- "no" is not a valid answer, anyway.
It's just like old times.
I'm laying there, just laying there, his arm around me.
"I really felt that last one."
After this, it happens. And I watch it.
I keep watching it, I've been re-watching it.
He twists my body, pulling my ragdoll body closer, lifting it until I'm flat on my back.
He is not like the girls I've been with.
There is no "Is this okay?"
and because of this,
there is not a "No."
But it isn't okay.
He shoves his hand up and underneath my bralette,
another hand travels south, shoving and pushing itself under my jeans.
Still buttoned.
He unbuttons them.
For a second, I think, "Who the fuck do you think you are?"
I contemplate saying "no," it runs through my mind, wrapping itself around my brain in a roundabout. It just can't find its way out, it's lost in the roundabout and won't come out my mouth.
His fingers do what my ragdoll body likes.
Moans escape my lips and I press them together.
He gets cocky.
As if he's so great, as if there weren't ones before him that could do this so much better, that did this so much better, that actually asked if they could do this.
Who the fuck do you think you are?
Why can't I say it?
He complains his hand is sore,
I zip up my pants in response.
He taps my tit,
I pull my shirt down, how did it even get pulled up?
It's past 2 a.m.
I inform him of this.
"What does that mean?"
"It's bedtime."
"Time doesn't exist."
He stalls and stalls and stalls and stalls and I just want to leave.
I really want to leave.
He leaves me with one large reminder to hide.
He leaves me feeling an out of body experience, my body isn't mine anyway.
It's just like old times.
He's three minutes late.
He's standing me up.
He knows what I want and he isn't going to give it to me.
More minutes pass, his car pulls up, an awkward feeling of relief.
It's just like old times.
Hours pass.
I don't remember what time it happens at. Mentally I say "fuck it" and lean in and kiss him.
I pull away quickly, surveying his reaction.
Aloud, I say "fuck it" and press my lips to his once more.
I don't feel anything.
Have I ever, though?
This isn't anything new.
So I keep going with it, kissing him longer, longer than I ever did when we were together.
His neck became a canvas for my lips to paint upon.
An eruption of blue and purple ornament it now.
It's nearing 1 a.m., then surpassing 1 a.m.
I point this out.
"And what does that mean?"
"It's bedtime," is my reply.
"I think sleep can wait."
Once again, my hint is not taken- "no" is not a valid answer, anyway.
It's just like old times.
I'm laying there, just laying there, his arm around me.
"I really felt that last one."
After this, it happens. And I watch it.
I keep watching it, I've been re-watching it.
He twists my body, pulling my ragdoll body closer, lifting it until I'm flat on my back.
He is not like the girls I've been with.
There is no "Is this okay?"
and because of this,
there is not a "No."
But it isn't okay.
He shoves his hand up and underneath my bralette,
another hand travels south, shoving and pushing itself under my jeans.
Still buttoned.
He unbuttons them.
For a second, I think, "Who the fuck do you think you are?"
I contemplate saying "no," it runs through my mind, wrapping itself around my brain in a roundabout. It just can't find its way out, it's lost in the roundabout and won't come out my mouth.
His fingers do what my ragdoll body likes.
Moans escape my lips and I press them together.
He gets cocky.
As if he's so great, as if there weren't ones before him that could do this so much better, that did this so much better, that actually asked if they could do this.
Who the fuck do you think you are?
Why can't I say it?
He complains his hand is sore,
I zip up my pants in response.
He taps my tit,
I pull my shirt down, how did it even get pulled up?
It's past 2 a.m.
I inform him of this.
"What does that mean?"
"It's bedtime."
"Time doesn't exist."
He stalls and stalls and stalls and stalls and I just want to leave.
I really want to leave.
He leaves me with one large reminder to hide.
He leaves me feeling an out of body experience, my body isn't mine anyway.
It's just like old times.
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