Would you save me?Mature

I don't think he's ever kissed a woman before.

And, now, he's kissing two. No, wait, just one. But which one?

His lips are on mine, yet I cannot say whether he's kissing me or kissing her. I long to know whether he's kissing the me they see or the me that I am.

There's a tongue, now. He's bolder than I thought. It burrows into me like a maggot on a wound.

The wound he never saw. The fresh scar, that's still red and tender. It's on my other arm, the one he didn't brush against.

It's a beautiful maggot. I can taste it. I can smell it. There's a flinty scent about him, as if someone's nervously about to commit arson.

Then, I feel that nervousness. It is not my own. He's shaking as he backs away, thinking he has wronged me in some fantastic way.

I want more. Comfort. Attention. Companionship.

He begins to stutter, and his poetic grace is lost.

Yet I speak, "Would you save me?"

Eff moves in once more, and I know now that it's me he kisses. Eyes I want to see again are closed. Pools of blue that would cry for me, regardless of whether there were stars out.

Behind us, a shadow of me is angry. She's jealous.

The End

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