She was a firecracker. Radiant where she walked. She was self destructive. Bursting apart from the inside out. She was an enigma.
She was strong. In her words that said no. But they were built out of wood; they wouldn’t last long. One Jenga block pull away from collapsing.
She was weak. In action. In empty promises and trailed kisses. In a mind that wondered to else—anywhere else—but her body was still there.
She was lost. In expectation. In luring words. In rolled hips and half mast eyes. She was drowning.
A traitor in disguise, her clothes came off her skin, piece by piece, motivated by prying fingers and a sly voice. Mixed in the translation, she couldn’t say no.
A year of built up self confidence—always teetering on the fence—shattered like porcelain glass. She should have been too fine to touch. She must have been irresistible. Shiny things don’t last. She must have known. She had to have known. So when, suddenly, a towel is thrown and the touch of air on skin becomes the greatest sin, there can be no surprise.
The fog clears, but she is heavy. Heavy in heart in soul in every lost emotion like the tears that want to come pouring out but cannot. Heavy for the lack of warmth that follows. Heavy for the disappointment, for the familiarity of it all. What was expected when you give more chances than one?
She was a firecracker, and damn did she want to scream. To cause riot. To explode and take everything and everyone down with her, but she did not.
To the known stranger next to her, she wined and dined and smiled and continued to open herself up. But inside? She died. At night’s end, she turned to the edge of her bed and hugged herself. Hoped for a long and dreamless sleep. Have you ever seen a corpse half alive?
brittany given. 