Only he does.
No part of me deserves his soft touches. His constant willingness to show tenderness to a body I’m destroying from the inside out.
But just like the drinks. Just like the shots I took before walking up to his door, I don’t know how to stop it.
I don’t know how to not depend on him. On the alcohol. It's not safe inside my own head.
It should be enough. His innocent care.
I should accept his innocent touches and be grateful he’s willing to lend me a bit of his strength. But I’m fucking weak. I need more.
He doesn’t stop me when I blindly seek out his mouth. I don’t even think it's a conscious choice. My mind and rational thought stopped driving me a long time ago. I chase one high to the next, blindly snatching any moment not drenched in torment I can.
Bowen doesn’t stop me when I find his mouth with my own. He lies perfectly still when our lips brush in a soft, whisper of a kiss. I feel his harsh exhale through his nose, fanning against our lips.
I picture what he must look like.
What emotion must be haunting his blue eyes.
I know his eyes are wide open. Iknowthey are.
Because I peek for the barest moment. I see them looking at me with a lit flame burning inside. The light at the end of the darkness I’ve been trapped inside for years.
It’s no longer than a space between heartbeats. But his eyes are burned into my mind, and I whimper, kissing the bottom lip that I always lovedlooking at. Once. Twice. My heart lodged somewhere between self-loathing and need.
But I can’t stop.
He doesn’t make me.
Bowen’s fingers slowly slink into my hair. I swear I feel them tremble, but it could be the shiver that runs through me when he uses his hold to pull me roughly to his mouth.
His mouth claims mine with the kind of intensity I would never have been brave enough to show. I turn soft and pliant in his arms, basking in being fed exactly what I wanted. What I needed.
One brutal kiss. One bitten lip. One groaned breath and seeking flick of tongue at a time.
Every nerve ending in my body wakes up, screaming for him to touch me. I need him more than I need to breathe. He hears my silent pleas because he releases my hair and runs his fingers down my back. He kneads my sides and pulls a whimper from my throat as he dominates the kiss. It’s electric. It’s the biggest hit of life I’ve felt in two years.
I forget to feel the guilt for stealing this moment of living when he’s here with me. When his mouth is on me, and his minty tongue is gliding with mine.
I reach a hand to his throat, and he moans into our kiss, letting me grab onto his neck and feel the flutter of his heart against my fingers. Because he’s alive. He’s living and breathing his life into me, and I need that reminder in my hands. His heart is racing, pounding, and I want to cry at the feeling of it.
“It beats for you, kitten. Do you feel it?” I nod over and over, and something in my chest expands and shifts with his kisses. With his heartbeat in my hand.
But by the time I wake up the next morning, I’m back in my room.
In my own bed.
My heart shatters all over again, and the taste of vodka on my tongue washes away the taste of him.
Dear B,
All of us are dying. Every day we get closer to that inevitable end. My Dad’s beard is streaked with gray now. My Mom has lines around her eyes I don’t remember seeing without a smile on her face.
I’m dying.
I feel it as sure as I feel your loss, B.
I feel it in the way your brother holds me when I finally drag myself away from the bottle long enough to crawl to his door.
