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someone completely differentlast night I sunk my needy teeth into his flesh and we collided skinto skin and teeth to tongue, exchanging saliva and hungry whimpers.I barely even knew how to write his name and I don't think he reallyknew mine but it didn't matter because he looked beautiful whenI closed my eyes and he tasted of euphoria and a lack of care.we pretended to fall in love for the night and I sighed into his armsand closed my eyes, with his greedy hands on my bared chest and mylips on his stomach. I spilled shampoo in his burning eyes and welaughed like lovers, stealing candy from each other's lips and suckingice cream off of each other's chest. we spent the entire day wearingnothing but our skin, watching children's movies and playing hide andseek between our limbs. I fell asleep thinking how much I had missed myskin tingling to someone's touch and how much I still missed somethingeven now that it did. because he was a lot but he certainly was notyou and I remembered how one day you were w
No PrincessI watched a story when I was five years-old. I watched the movie that I know by heart and backwards. The story every little girl believes is how life is going to be. The story every little girl acts out in her bedroom, wearing a plastic tiara and her mother's too-big high heals. It's a love story. I would always have my favorite teddy bear be the prince. It ended happily ever after each and every time I played. And I was the happily married princess.Maybe I watched it too many times. I was eight and I thought I was in love. I thought I had found the perfect boy to be my prince. I would see him at school and he would be my happily ever after prince, in my imagination. The girls teased me for thinking so. I called them my step-sisters. They resented me for it, and I was ridiculed more. I stopped saying my romanticised thoughts out loud. I quit pretending I was characters when I was in front of people. It was the easiest thing to do.By the time I was twelve, I was thinking I was destine
FathersI have a proud father. His heart soars with the jets he fixed and patched for twenty years. Been married twice, never to my mother. He rough-housed and played although my mother wanted me to detach forever. My proud father wouldn't let it happen, he wouldn't be taken from his baby girl.During the years my fathers pride has worn down to it's core, barely visible anymore. Falling apart at the seams. Two metal hips, hardly any intestines settled inside him, a bum knee, and worn hands. His sanity and happiness slowly draining, rotting to the center. My proud father still loves me, because at least he's got a full heart.Now my second father, an Irish dad. His heart is stained in bacon grease and beer. No military training, but practically in the gym everyday. His health seems nearly perfect. Prancing through mountains of snow on boards and sliding across ice hockey fields. Artsy and sarcastic, nothing seems broken at all. Knowing more stories about him than my actual dad. I do