And it's bare clothed ******* with pebbled ******* tweaked too rough. Smooth skin bruised by calloused fingers and you remind yourself the fact that parts of you will leave black and blue. She's never been gentle, but neither have you. You like that she likes it to.

It's a head thrown back, scream in throat but sound long gone. She makes you forget how to speak, but you can still hear her heart break. Mussed sheets she never bothers to make, hair too messy to be saved. Your eyes are too heavy to see it anyway.

It's fast and easy. Hips pressed together in unsteady rhythm because you keep wondering what she sees in you.  Legs tangled in a sheen of sweat as you whisper sweet words to hide your lies. She stopped trying to hold your hand weeks ago.

It's pliant lips that taste too much like cherry wine and kisses crested along your hips. She marks you because she knows the truth, for now though you let her have you. Feelings so high, she steals her name from your lungs over and over and over . And it's always after that that you realize this isn't love.

But it's something.

And so you tell her you love her anyway.
*When what you mean is you'll **** her anyway.