Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Or, Goodbye

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.

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