Optional Playlist:

Machine Gun Kelly, Camila Cabello: Bad Things

LoveXTerror: Carousel

Rust brown fingerprints smudge the edge of the white door frame. The tips of his fingers streak down the seal. His stature is engulfed by the entryway. His figure flickers. His knees crack and bend at his own hollow weight. A sigh trembles across his collarbone. Gravity pulls him across the threshold and into orbit.

Your apartment door clicks shut behind him. He ruffles the worry from his chestnut hair. It flickers back across his half-moon eyes.

Her porcelain, pink lipstick creases through the crack of his lips. You swallow. Your bare feet shuffle backwards across the tile. Your shoulder blades smack into the white wall that juts from the hallway.

You didn’t think he would come tonight.

The blood drains. Your fingers go numb, and connect with skin. The palm of your hand molds around his forearm. His shadow looms, grey and mournful like a building storm. Her jasmine burns down your throat as the cold front thunders across your skin.

“Where did you leave her?”

He sighs. His breath sticks to the dimples in your cheek like condensation on cold glass.

“We’ve been here too many times.” The words tremble across his lips as they tighten, dangerously thin.

His skeleton fingers run down the worn creases of your right cheek. His pointer finger traces your jawline. Your head tilts upward. His skin ripples as you connect. His energy is unnerving.

The drag of his lips slips your mouth wide. The heel of his palm presses hard into your chest. A rush of air escapes like the crack of a falling tree limb, sinking hard and crashing on cold ground. Midnight grit flickers across your eyelashes forcing salty tears.

“This feels like the last time.”

A molten ball of panic singes within your stomach. His eyes roll. They flutter into a deep eclipse. He slides you from the white wall and onto the couch.

He sits on the edge. His calves tense, his right heel taps the vinyl floor. Fear creeps across his chilled flesh, the fear of taking too much.

It’s not his fault. You gnaw the inside of your swollen lip. You suck the iron, swirling across the tip of your tongue. You leave yourself exposed, raw and worn. You know he likes split edges. He feeds when you’re unraveling at the seams.

He pulls you against his chest. You struggle within the quicksand. It constricts. It makes breathing tiresome, and your legs numb. The cold air warps your exhausted body. You left the temperature far too low. He traces the chill with jagged nails as it skitters across your wrist.

His arm extends, cracking as it bends. He guides your fingers towards the half-filled glass on the coffee table. The glasses were left from the night before. You were too frail to clean, too desperate to keep the company.

He wraps your fingers in his. The pads smudge perfect prints on the glass’ clear surface. They blend smoothly, and then churn in disarray. He swirls the liquid. It must be mixed thoroughly. He brings the edge of the glass to your lips, fingers locked and eager to quench the burning.

It only takes a few minutes, a few minutes of cold, a few minutes of frantic falling. Your eyes are wide behind black eyelids. Your lungs burn with desperate screams behind sealed lips.

He slides from the edge of the couch. His bruised knees press hard into the vinyl floor. He cups your neck in sweaty hands. He lowers your head to rest gently against the suede cushion.

“What have we done.”