We kiss. The first things I taste are blood and sweat, the flavor of the vitriol that soaks our past and the war of our wills. But underneath the iron and salt, I find an unexpected, unnerving softness. I expected his lips to slice like razors. I wanted them to snag on my lips like barbed wire as I pulled away. A part of me that resists this, that wishes I had never kissed him, that wants him to stay evil, is waiting to be proven right. But the more closely I examine that softness, the deeper it becomes. It recedes away from the realm of illusion. The part of me that waits for him to be proven inhuman shrinks and crumbles, laced with destabilizing veins of empathy - his lips are fleshy, chapped, and malleable - human, like mine.
I feel his body under my hands as I lean closer into him. The lines between us seem to blur more and more by the second. His hands land on my shoulders where they become my arms. I think my mouth opens first, but before it really matters who started it we’ve begun to slide against each other, doing things to each other’s mouths than enemies, or even friends, should not really be doing. The inside of his cheek tastes like vinegar and fruit. I find that I’ve sucked away the taste of sweat from his lips and now his skin is almost sweet, like I can taste the glucose from the cells that I’ve ruptured with the friction of my mouth against his.
There’s almost no space between us now. When I tilt my head, he counters as if it were choreographed. I don’t know who’s leaning into who. Hands move across clothing as if we already know what we’re doing. I don’t know what we’re doing. I don’t want it to stop.
No comments:
Post a Comment