Not by a cock or fingers or even a tongue.
I'm penetrated by fucking possessiveness.
And I’m not happy about it. So fuck her.
No—fuck him.
No—fuck me.
Because I was stupid enough to let this happen.
(Well, fuck them too, obviously.)
And he had the audacity to offer me his shirt.
After it’s been groped by half the club.
Yeah. Wrap me in your body count. Real cozy.
Your Ghosts of Pussy Past.
The one who still tastes like summer on his fingers.
The one with red lips and a death grip on her D-cup.
The one he went down on and didn’t come back up for air.
Could’ve been a season ofFRIENDS.
Ending withThe One Where Andrew Played the Fuck Outta Allison.
Meanwhile, my heart can’t take any more.
She’s looking up at me with mascara running down her heartbeat.
Tonight my chest cracked open, every emotion yanked out, shoved in a jar, drowned in gasoline, capped tight, and rammed back inside my ribcage like a souvenir.
But I don’t let it show on my face.
Nah—to everyone else?
I’m just some girl standing in her juice-splashed boots, hair twisted up in a thick knot, wearing an oversized black hoodie, posted up at a beam as if nothing’s bleeding under it, eyes daring someone tofucking try me.
And there’s no sign of Andrew.
Just some creep on the edge of the crowd?—
black shirt, locked stare,
skin-crawling stalker-still.
He’s been staring too long.
I’m praying he doesn’t grow the balls to come over.
Or worse, trail me home.
Andrew steps up to the stage shirtless.
