I think I feel it
The nimble, fleeting emotion
That novels and authors desperately
Try to convey in ink and heart blood
Whose shadow festers in the loins
Of teenagers and their insatiability
The hidden thing none of us can see
Yet we all disagree what it looks like
If only it were love… simple, infinite love
But this was more, this was bloodshot madness.

I love her, but every hug leaves bullet holes in my chest. Every kiss is another scar upon my flesh. Every thrust, every touch, every moan that escapes her lips…they are famine to my soul, and I still can’t let her go.

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