(no subject)
He giggled, struggled, steadied his stoned hand enough to push away the hair that had gathered itself into a knotty mess behind her head, above her flesh, next to her thoughts. she was quick to shy away from this advance, which had ironically enough derailed their progression. she proclaimed her current state to be a direct result of his touch, while he condemned her perpetual postion; lying down, knees apart, back arched. barely audible he pleads, more inwardly than not, "love doesn't make it any better. its just a word, you're just a whore."
