It’s his leg. Under the table, pressed against mine. Not pressing. Just there against my calf. It feels good. Friendly and relaxed and warm and nice. But also… the other, that flutter of wings opening. Does he feel that? Does he know what he’s doing? There’s a buzz of electricity there. It isn’t a storm but it’s a light bulb in an otherwise dark room. And then I’m aware, I am on and it’s all of me and there’s no room for anything else. It shuts my mouth and I remember that crack where I left the door to my center open and only for you. My hands get clammy and my forehead knits considering how I can stop myself, if I even want to stop myself from ..I don’t even know what…. it’s exactly that.. That I might do anything without thought and it will set a domino over that can’t ever be retrieved.
You opened me with one finger. One slipping sliding finger at my core and I’ve been exposed. I’ve seen what this body might do, the places I might go. And now I ache and I long in ways I never did before. I need and I want and you cut me off and as much as my heart would rather travel with you, as much as my head realizes a mirage can be summoned in the desert, as much as I restrain myself from landing this twisted cursed mess of a self in anyone’s godforsaken and undeserved lap for so temporary a relief I don’t know that this butterfly can ever be shoved back in her cocoon.
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