Fabrication to a Love Ode

I swear to God, there are some days I think it would have been better to never have met her. But why the fuck would I be writing if that were the case?

I mean, really. God, she wore her bloody heart on her sleeves. The dress could always be washed, she had a habit of saying.

And I was frigid. I wanted to wait. I wanted to think. I wanted to breath slowly. But she'd shake her head and hoist her arms up.

It's like a damn toothache when your back molar's coming out: the shit's just tearing up your gum but it's doesn't really matter, anymore. It's been there for a week, already, and you're halfway used to it, anyway. And it's so raw and swollen that you can't stop rubbing something against it or it'd just fucking hurt. And your blood and saliva are salving that ruddy flesh as you gargle your swarthy gurgle…

So I took the bloody warmth. And I didn't wait. Because the pulse was important, no matter how clogged.

And nothing fit her hips as perfectly as the moon through rain-streaked car windows. And nothing filled my nostrils as well as that first embrace of each day.

An- and…I guess…my molar-screams too blanketed the room.