He trailed his fingertips up my side, whispering things like "You're beautiful".
What's so beautiful? Was it the way my eyes fluttered at your touch, or the way my skin feels against your palms? How far up my shirt did you get before you thought I was beautiful?
You discarded my top like you previously discarded our love, tossed it across the room to lay among the other shirts stained in Jasmine perfume.
I wasn't Jasmine, not hot-nights and lights off, with tears in her eyes because she has daddy issues and her mom told her she'd end up on bedside tables anyways.
I was Twilight Woods, fogged windows in a church parking lot, and putting my pants on before you wake up, my daddy hugged me enough, and my mother has no idea about the way you love to tangle your fingers in my hair at red lights.
Secrets in the writing on your windows.