He swallows back the words.
As if he says anything, he’ll lose it,
so he says nothing.
He steps back,
turns around,
and follows the others toward the stage.
I move to the support beam on the floor, and stand with claw marks down my chest from the night.
All the girls.
All the stares.
All the throwback pussy stories…
An emotional gangbang goes down inside my ribcage, leaving my heart on her back, mascara smeared, thighs sore, looking at me as if I let this happen.
I should’ve left after‘Moaning into my clit with a death grip on my D-cup.’
But I didn’t. And I don’t know why anymore.
Now that line’s tattooed on the walls of my chest now. Next to‘Some.’
And I’m still here.
Against the beam.
A fucking idiot.
While Andrew and his boys crowd one end of the stage, talking to sound tech.
Because about an hour ago I opened my big mouth, saying I wanted to hear him sing with my whole chest, acting like a badass bitch who could handle ghosts and groupies and girls who had their tongues down his throat.
And I'm still a badass bitch.
I still don’t do jealousy or insecurity.
It’s him who weaponized my words.
It feels like he tossed me into open water in the middle of a storm, and he's just standing there, ready to say‘told you so’if I swim, expecting me to drown with a straight face.
And now I’m too proud to leave,
too stubborn to lose that I’d rather stand here bleeding than walk away.
That’s on me.
This pain? Self-inflicted.
And not five seconds later, Talia’s beside him,
purple streaks catching strobe,
brow ring glinting,
