To Talk Without Thinking
1/1
To talk without thinking is to shoot without aiming.
Papery fingers on flaky white skin, salt-water globules of sweat falling to the floor, pink lips pressed up against pink lips, saliva mixing with saliva. Ceramic white teeth grazing against skin, moans tearing from throats, fingers clenching and unclenching. Inky bruises on hips, ribs, and thighs. Ruby red rivulets falling from lips where we’ve bit down too hard, dripping onto cotton salt-water drenched sheets.
To talk without thinking is to shoot without aiming.
Sloppy thrusts and kisses, lusty moans and pleads, olive eyes shining with delight, fear, and wonder beneath me. “G-Gee!” But I don’t say anything back, just continue thrusting, scraping my teeth across my lip, taste of him still on them. His calloused fingers found their way to my shoulders gripping onto them tightly, blue-green veins standing out against his many tattoos.
Blood rushing to heads, lungs exploding in with oxygen and carbon dioxide, nails scraping against backsides, leaving rough red welts; he explodes, eyes shutting, mouth turning down in a grim expression, almost, my name falling off his stupid fucking lips carelessly.
I slam into him again, the force angry and frustrated.
To talk without thinking,
Fucking bastard.
To shoot without aiming.
The anger builds up, higher higher higher, until all of the sudden, it explodes, bone, cranium, skin, heart flying everywhere; my vocal chords won’t fucking work, as I grip onto him still, waves of pleasure shattering the glass I’ve been held in.
I want you.
To talk without thinking is to shoot without aiming.
Falling against him, breathing heavy, huge gulps of oxygen, exhaling carbon dioxide fast; he grins. He fucking grins. The anger flows to my fingertips, I want to hit him I want to hit him. He has no fucking place in this room.
“I hate you.”
“Of course you fucking do. The feeling is ever-so-mutual.”
“You’re a whore.”
“Hypocrite. Fucking hypocrite.”
To talk without thinking is to shoot without aiming. To talk without thinking is to shoot without aiming. To talk without thinking is to shoot without aiming.
“That was… nice, Gee.”
Bastard. I want to claw my eyes out, so I can get rid of the image of him writhing beneath me all those times. I want to claw his face away, so his stupid fucking grin will disappear.
Bastard bastard bastard. Nerve; he has nerve. I want to slam him against the wall and make every one of those nerves melt from his body like wax, sinking into the bedroom floors. Instead, instead, I just lay there and listen to his purrs of satisfaction, his fucking arrogant breathing, and remember the last words.
“Fuck me.”
“Okay.”
To talk without thinking is to shoot without aiming.
You never know where you’re gonna land.
Papery fingers on flaky white skin, salt-water globules of sweat falling to the floor, pink lips pressed up against pink lips, saliva mixing with saliva. Ceramic white teeth grazing against skin, moans tearing from throats, fingers clenching and unclenching. Inky bruises on hips, ribs, and thighs. Ruby red rivulets falling from lips where we’ve bit down too hard, dripping onto cotton salt-water drenched sheets.
To talk without thinking is to shoot without aiming.
Sloppy thrusts and kisses, lusty moans and pleads, olive eyes shining with delight, fear, and wonder beneath me. “G-Gee!” But I don’t say anything back, just continue thrusting, scraping my teeth across my lip, taste of him still on them. His calloused fingers found their way to my shoulders gripping onto them tightly, blue-green veins standing out against his many tattoos.
Blood rushing to heads, lungs exploding in with oxygen and carbon dioxide, nails scraping against backsides, leaving rough red welts; he explodes, eyes shutting, mouth turning down in a grim expression, almost, my name falling off his stupid fucking lips carelessly.
I slam into him again, the force angry and frustrated.
To talk without thinking,
Fucking bastard.
To shoot without aiming.
The anger builds up, higher higher higher, until all of the sudden, it explodes, bone, cranium, skin, heart flying everywhere; my vocal chords won’t fucking work, as I grip onto him still, waves of pleasure shattering the glass I’ve been held in.
I want you.
To talk without thinking is to shoot without aiming.
Falling against him, breathing heavy, huge gulps of oxygen, exhaling carbon dioxide fast; he grins. He fucking grins. The anger flows to my fingertips, I want to hit him I want to hit him. He has no fucking place in this room.
“I hate you.”
“Of course you fucking do. The feeling is ever-so-mutual.”
“You’re a whore.”
“Hypocrite. Fucking hypocrite.”
To talk without thinking is to shoot without aiming. To talk without thinking is to shoot without aiming. To talk without thinking is to shoot without aiming.
“That was… nice, Gee.”
Bastard. I want to claw my eyes out, so I can get rid of the image of him writhing beneath me all those times. I want to claw his face away, so his stupid fucking grin will disappear.
Bastard bastard bastard. Nerve; he has nerve. I want to slam him against the wall and make every one of those nerves melt from his body like wax, sinking into the bedroom floors. Instead, instead, I just lay there and listen to his purrs of satisfaction, his fucking arrogant breathing, and remember the last words.
“Fuck me.”
“Okay.”
To talk without thinking is to shoot without aiming.
You never know where you’re gonna land.