Kiss me against the lockers
or behind the bike racks if you'd rather.

I'll hike up my skirt so you can give me pleasure.
One hand for inducing my moans
the other hand to silence them.

Translating the movements of your body
and replying with movements of my own.

I don't just wanna be your come down.
I wanna be what gets you high.
I wanna be you THC.
Your MDMA.
Your TLC.
And all the other letters in between.

She fell into a happy medium between feeling and not where she could experience emotions without being whisked away by them into a dimention with no doors or windows.
Content with the mildness of an average day.
Very nearly satisfied.

She mirrored the images that were projected onto the screen in front of her.
Her waxy smile smearing as the heat pressed down on her.
Her drug of choice was love and she always paid the price.

I never want to forget the fear associated with being completely in love with someone
Or boat rides I took with my dad and sister where we all lied to ourselves for thirty minutes.
The salty air demanded our smiles, stole the laughter straight out of our mouths.

I never want to forget the new years eve when I drank so many mimosas I couldn't stand up and watched you fall asleep in the closet of a stranger's house.
We were both so drunk and it was perfect.

I never want to forget that I promised myself I'd be happy, and that the opposite of happy isn't alone.

She was never apologetic about the fact that she kissed him like she hated him.
As if by some strange spell her kisses were slowly poisoning him from the inside out
And then one day he would pass away and no one would be the wiser.

And just as she imagined her kisses had the power to ****, they also had the power to bring to life; but she was less fond of that feature.
She didn't want to fix things.
She preferred to break them because so many other people spent their whole lives fixing.
Destruction was something of a natural instinct to her.
To anyone really, but especially her.
She didn't need to be taught how to break things.
And there was far less competition in this category.

So she kept on kissing, and one by one the boys dropped dead. Always boys, never men.
Because they shrank to a shell of their former selves when they kissed her.
They hollowed out so that the wind howled through them, echoing against frailing bones.
All their insides drying up with every dart of her tongue, which she weilded like a sword.

He told me he loved me on a Tuesday. I remember because while he said it the thought flitted through my mind that he had chosen one of the most insignificant days to say something so significant. And then my next thought was relief. Because I'd known I loved him for a long time but had restrained from saying so in order to give him the time he needed to decide how he felt about me.

No girl sets out to be the type of woman that needs a man.
Yet here we are.
In a man's world, run by little boys.