It was one of those nights where the moon was particularly proud, but he was hot and haughty as the summer sun. Eager to please, when I decided I was ripe enough to be picked. A flutter, a lone jolt of electricity, when his body shivered against mine. I adored him, when he loved me with his lips. I worshiped him, as he stole life through my wrists.
When I had nothing left to give, he wiped me off his chest and walked away. And there I was, dried and shriveled; a raisin.
And—for the very first time—alive.