I shouldn't be here but I can't stop (Audio)

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the room sits quiet. empty words inside the pale blue shadow of summer. white curtains rise and fall on humid periwinkle breeze. I shouldn’t be here with you. but I couldn’t stay away. there is something in the way you say my name. its cadence bows lower. it drags a blade through my chest.

your fingers. thick in my mind. are sliding the straps of my top down now. I shouldn’t have come here. your breath is a runaway train. I can feel it. rumbling on the tracks of my spine. your fingers. then your tongue on my nipples. bared. then fire blazing straight to my molten core. table linens. candle wax. gags.

you shouldn’t be here. you say it, too. the words fall out of your mouth as it finds the hood of my sex. my skirt pools at my feet. at your knees. you are somehow beneath me. and I am somehow still standing. in the center of your living room. the white curtains dancing by the long windows open to the street. your tongue against the front lace panel of my nude thong. fuck..

‘Rosalie… fuck’

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what if she found us. what if you are the monument that buries me and I am too young to feel like dying. as you circle me. touching things that are not yours. and what if. I melt in endless ocean light for just the closeness of your secret mouth.

I come so close to the edge. the razor thin line. desire and want. want and recklessness and permission. permission. and my knees pushed up to my breasts. and my young naked hips bucking against the press of your right thumb and your left thumb in my full pink mouth.

and my thumb in my mouth after you fuck it. as you slide the lace aside. as my throbbing lips become the wet beat of the tongue lashing in your pulse. your pulse becomes the darkening room of the shadow of a lost animal mind. of knee socks and lecture halls. the curve of my ass under the heat of your palm. as I pass you in the classroom.

and time stands still on a pin drop.

and you sigh. and I sigh. and the darkness falls feathered against my ribs.

like a bird beneath its cloth at night.

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sticky stained sheets. wet dreams of my bare pussy on your desk. poetry passed in rough notes between us. marginalia and your intellect ruining my concentration. and reading glasses and my legs spread. my panties slipped around the Shakespeare in your bottom drawer. the way the tall pine trees stand thick on your front lawn. your cock coming free of your pants. your cock opening my mouth. rubbing my sex. and my tanned knees to my milky white breasts. and the smell of chalk. on your cologne. on my neck.

the way you can’t hold it. can’t stop it. pushing it in. ‘Rosalie.. fuck, little girl.. open up for me’

and I can’t stop opening. and opening. like a flower. like a tiny butterfly. like a door ajar and mountain ranges collapsing apart against a thundercloud sky and I shouldn’t be here. and you are coming. and you are coming so hard and so hot. all over me.

all over.

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this is pretty. this is pretty. this is the mark. of small things that end the endless lie. knife pricks lodged in tender hearts.

this is beauty. forbidden. this is how I walk home with the taste of you in my hair. pink and purple. and blue ribbons of sunset.

the stars are out in daylight. the sun is still hot. in the dead of night.

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May we never forget the poetics of desire.

always remember. to fall quiet in its presence.

to worship the sex of the need.

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