Fiction

I kiss your neck, drunkenly, sloppily; it’s a wet kiss and I suck a little bit as I feel your breath hitch against my lips. I plant open-mouthed kisses around your neck, and you let me, at first, until I reach your clavicle and give it a small lick. You push me away, softly, slowly, halfheartedly; and whisper my name as a warning.

I already know I’ve won.

I hum absentmindedly and focus on the red spots I’ve made with my lips. I trace them with the fingers of one hand, while my other one undoes the buttons of your polo shirt. You take my hand, the one drawing circles on your skin, and say my name again.

It sounds so pretty on your lips, love, or is that the alcohol?

I hum again, and entwine my fingers with yours as your face changes from shock to concern. I move closer and kiss your cheek, softly this time, and move down to that jaw I seem to love so much. I plant butterfly kisses along your jaw line and you sigh my name.

I’ve won, completely.

I smile against the spot under your ear and give it a soft lick. I suck that spot and feel you give in, finally. You turn your face towards me, and your lips find mine. You teach me how to kiss and how to be kissed properly; our tongues dancing awkwardly at first, trying to get to know each others’ tastes. I fight for dominance, of course, even if I don’t know what it is I am doing. I can feel you smile through our kiss; I amuse you. Your hands tangle in my hair suddenly, and you hold me in place as you teach me the pace, the taste, the feel of being thoroughly kissed by you, and the tables are turned.

I’m grasping at straws and trying to hold on to my drunken courage, but you’re scaring me with the way your lips taste. I pull away and you let me. We stare at each other’s eyes for a few seconds, your hands still in my hair, our chests heaving like we’ve just ran a marathon; and my drunken fog has lifted, while your eyes have turned molten and your lips so pink from me nipping at them.

You say my name in a whisper, in awe and surprise and I feel like you’ve seen me, truly, for the first time. I gulp, I was wrong. I’ve lost this conquest to you and your kiss, and your soft way of saying my name. This is bad. This is wrong. This is… my fault. But I don’t care anymore, so I come closer again, and latch onto your neck as I feel you groan while I lick the side of it. Your hands are on my hips this time, and my hand is inside your shirt while the other is on your bicep. I kiss you like a famished vampire, and you let me, again. 

You push me away and this time it’s you kissing me in the same spot and it’s so glorious I moan your name, and you smile against my neck. You push me down onto the sand, and I let you, a dazed smile on my face as your shirt lands beside me and my hands explore every inch of your body. You’re not done yet, still kissing down my chest and your hand slipping underneath my bathing suit top.

I bite my lip, but you slow down. Your kisses getting softer, more lingering, and I already know your lust-filled haze has lifted. You look up and your eyes meet mine. I can blame the alcohol, you have nothing to blame but your self-control, and I see you realize that. I smile at you reassuringly, trying to tell you I know what I got myself into without having to use words. But you stand and wordlessly put your shirt on, then sit beside me. I prop myself up on my elbows and look at the stars. 

We sit like that in silence for a few minutes, but it feels like eternity and an hour, trying to get our bearings. We sit like that until our friends find us, their drunken laughter reaching us before they do, and tell us it’s time to go. You need to  drive us home.

~Fin~

Opposites and Synonyms

It's a storm inside this heart, underneath the chest muscles and the bones, and the self-made fortresses. It's a hurricane in this brain, under the hair, the skin, the skull, the obvious consciousness. It's a mess, this body under the perfectly pressed clothes, under the practiced smiles and lined eyes and painted lips. It's the ocean and the shore, and mountains upon mountains of ashes buried underneath the waves, it's salt and tears and cold whipping winds. 

It's not simple underneath this deconstructed facade, it's death and blood, despair and the moon pulling the tides to and fro. It's lullabies and screaming songs, soft strums and wailing electric guitars, it's red roses in pretty vases and forests of giant trees at the same time. It's the tiniest kitten with the loudest roar, and the battle-scarred wolf with the softest heart, it's opposites and synonyms rhyming all at once and never again.

It's a mess inside this body, it's all bruises and self-inflicted wounds. It's casket upon casket of dead selves with flowers sprouting from breathless chests and hearts clutched in frozen fingers. It's where the world ends and where it begins, and it's the meadows in spring and the deserts in summer, it's the rushing river and the dry river beds. It's the thunder storms and the shining sun, and they're all together and separated; and it's every bit confusing and every bit beautiful and fearsome at the same time. 

It's reds and blues, greens and oranges, purples and yellows, and blacks and whites all together, in equal measures. It's the tempest and the calm ocean, it's flame and ice, it's life and death; and it's underneath our skin, below the muscles, the tendons, the arteries, the blood, the bone, the marrow. It's in our souls and the mitochondria of our cells. It's who we are, who we want to be, who we are not, and who we become. It's our storm, and our hurricanes, and our mess; and it's glorious.

The Horrible Boy Who Made Me Laugh

I fell in love once, just once, just the one time. At least it was as close to love as I thought I would ever get, I still think it is. You see, I fell in love with a boy who had a mind full of thunderstorms, hands like roses, and a silver tongue that stung.

He was not like the sunset, although his eyes did turn molten gold in early morning light. He wasn't an Adonis, and neither was he a Hercules. But his wit was as sharp as the arrows that flew from bows in the stories of myth, and his laugh felt like the rain on a day when the sun would shine so hot, the sidewalks seemed to melt. He was a horrible person, really. Spoiled and overly self-confident, he took his intelligence and used it as a weapon. He was underhanded and mean spirited, and made me feel like shit half the time.

But he made me laugh, and that was very important for me, at the time. All I wanted was someone who made me laugh. I felt horrible about myself already, anything he said, or did, did not hurt, at least not so much. He also read the same books I did, and as a teenage bookworm in an age where the boys thought reading was uncool and nerdy, he was a Godsend. He was opinionated, and unafraid to say what he thought, which, most of the time, was what I thought as well. He made me question things, he made me question everything, and he pushed me. Well, he pushed me away in the most hurtful way possible, but apart from that, he pushed me to do things I never would have. He challenged me, literally. When I'd tell him I wasn't sure of doing something he'd say "I'm doing it, so I guess if I get it I'm going to be better than you." He didn't get it, I did. Because he told me to.

He also intimidated me, and that is no mean feat, I may have hated myself, but I knew my views and my opinions and I knew how to voice them eloquently. I could intimidate the best of them, but him, I couldn't. He'd brush it off, and laugh in my face. It was refreshing. He had scathing retort after every scathing opinion, and he hurt my feelings at least three times every week, but he'd come up and wrap an arm around me when he knew he'd gone too far. He never said sorry, the unapologetic bastard. All he would do is sit next to me on the bench, and put an arm around my shoulders, or lean on me for a few minutes, transferring some of his warmth; and for some reason, I didn't need his apologies, I didn't want them. We'd sit there in silence, with him sometimes nudging my shoulder with his, or poking me in the ribs until I cracked a smile or pushed him away. He liked when I pushed, he'd laugh and then do it again until I started talking to him.

He read my poetry, and gave me constructive feedback, he drew at the back of my notebooks, and made me feel safe enough to say what I really felt, in the language that I could express myself best. He UNDERSTOOD. I could get lost in the stories he would spin, the way we talked about books and movies, and people we did not like. Every day would find me waiting for him because for once in my life, I valued someone else's opinion over my own. He slowly started to feel like home, like a white picket fence and a small two-bedroom house. I fell in love with him. I didn't realize it then, but I was.

Needless to say, he broke my heart and it felt like a punch to the gut. I was winded. But I didn't show it. I knew, you see, I knew. I was not his type. I was the furthest away from his type. But, God, do I miss the bastard. I don't hear his laugh anymore, we don't even talk. He's too far away for that, and I've pretty much severed that connection. What was the point of remaining friends if he still made me feel like shit at least three times a week, and he wasn't there to put his arm around me anymore?

I grew up, I guess. I love myself more now, and it's taken me 22 years to do that. I'll be damned if I let some boy bring me down again.

Orange Sunsets

I've always wanted a guy whose favorite color was orange. I think it's because I am so in love with the color purple (obviously), and sunsets. That doesn't make any sense, but let me explain. See, purple and orange only look good in sunsets, and sunsets are my favorite thing in the sky. Because I'm not just saying wispy, light purple and the peach tones of a sunrise; I am talking about the flash of bright, strong orange against the darkening purple sky as the day ends, the majesty of the sun's exit, how it is all bright and dark at the same time, it ushers in the night with such brilliance every day without fail.

Now to have the color orange as a favorite color isn't really a big deal, you know? I just think it would be a nice... well I just think it would be nice. It's one of those little things that don't really matter, but if it was there, it would make you a bit happier, you know? Anyway, so, yeah, the color orange, and sunsets.

I rather do like endings compared to beginnings. I mean, if you start something, it's so much work, you lay down the foundations, you build it up, revise, attach, create, add, continue slowly, oh so slowly, so that you don't mess up. It's the same with sunrises, don't you think? It's slow, and sweet, and light, then it builds up until it's high noon and the sun is blazing above and making you sweat and swear. But with endings, oh, the ENDINGS! Aren't they just marvelous? Every single thing you have done, you have worked for, culminating in a giant blast of color only to suddenly turn black. The drama, the theatricality, the beauty of it all! And you can choose! It's either bright oranges and dark purples, and Pomelo pinks with tinges of bright yellow, or dark blues with ribbons of yellows and oranges fading into the violet sky.

I like endings. I don't know what that says about me, I am pretty sure there's a psychological something or other about this, but I don't really care and I am not inclined to find out. I just like the color purple, and the way it blends so beautifully with the orange at the end of the day, that's all.