bored crush / blood craving

maladaptive daydreams, snail-shelled, grieving. ( I haven't changed a bit _)

Can you see behind my lowered gaze my dog-like hunger? I’m melting in the back of your hot car. I’m drooling and asthmatic. nothing but a perverse little puddle, warm as sin. calculating the angle of my hips, the way I bite my lips and wring my hands and tap my fingers. do you find my hyperactivity alluring? I haven’t sat still since they took me off stimulants.

I speak once every seventy-two minutes. I look at you as often as I can, and today, you looked back thirteen times. I smile softer at everybody else. I only express enthusiasm when your eyes fix on mine. Can you tell? Do I scare you? Am I child to you? In my mind, I will daydream about being brave. I’ll ask -

What’s your favorite cocktail? Take me to your favorite bar. I want you to wrap me in your jacket. Is that a gun in your pocket? Do you find violence romantic? Are you scared too? Are my fangs showing? Does my meekness betray me?

Don’t look too long, you embarrassing creature, he’ll start to catch on.

I hope you start to catch on. I hope you fantasize about pistol-whipping me. In one hour, perhaps I will ask you a question, so quiet you can barely hear. When you respond in your shivering, shy voice I will smile and nod with aggressive, feminine fervor. I will cut the conversation short with a dull knife, sever the tangle of nerves. I’ll regret it instantly. when we return to first position, awkward smiles between bashful glances - I will drown out this world and live in the one where I am brave and desirable. when you come near, I will pretend you don’t even exist.

In my fantasies, I’ll walk up to you, and you won’t be unnerved by me. An arachnid girl, a kit with milk-foam gums. In my fantasies I’m a doll-eyed woman with graceful limbs. I never jitter. In my fantasies, you ask me why I go out of my way to talk to you, and no one else, and in my fantasies I’m brave enough to tell you the truth.

I wish to drink milk from your cupped hands. Press the barrel to my head. I wish I’d fall to rags, twitching at your feet. I wish you’d worship me.

For now I ought to keep my wishes realistic; I hope just once today, I hope you think of me. I hope I find some guts. I’ll scrounge around for them myself, soon as my pain tolerance goes up. I hope nobody loves you. I think I’m just using you to pass the time. I hope you beat me to a pulp.

Ean by me / pixiegaxingphotography on insta

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