His hands skidded across my skin
His eyes were smoke-screened and I questioned him
Did he know who I was?
What he was doing?
Where we were?
He grabbed my hand
His lips pressed forcefully against mine, rough, bitten.
My lips matched his but they were.. delicate you could say.
Because I was seven.
They weren't full, they weren't sweet, they weren't "tasty"
The fact that my "kisses" were "good" was not something to be proud of
I'm fifteen. I know what you did now. I know how you hurt me.
There's only one thing I don't know by now.
why the **** did you do this to me?
i was only a little girl
but now i'm still just that, only hurt.
you shouldn't be proud of what you did.
you shouldn't be happy with yourself
i don't know if you'll get what you deserve
i just know that i didn't deserve that
well i might've.
*see what you've done?