Right now there are brown dashes on the inside of my shoulder. A pink and violet femme bruise pulsating out of my white tit. The opposing tit being decorated with pale pink fading scars. Brown and pink angular lines down my hipbones giving perfect direction to the thin landing strip my cunt is currently wearing. On the edges of both my thighs are tan bruises and then a matching one on the left cheek of my ass and yet I’m still tempted to take that ass and bend it over someone’s lap —I say it so vaguely but you know I have an idea on who– while my face bends down my mouth gapes open and that ass gets rouge, salmon, lavender, grape, magenta, onyx, tan, lime, maroon, pink, neon striped, hand-printed, scarlet blood drying into crusty brown beatings. And with them come squeaks, whimpers, moans, screams, maybe, but then growls.
Did any fingerprints make indents in my ass? Can my ass be the next set of CSI? Is my ass colorful enough to be included in your impressionist art gallery?
Does my ass challenge you? Scare you?
Do my jutting collarbones seem like a juxtaposition? Did you expect different result when you saw how close my spine is to my skin? Did you not think something would be inside these b-cup tits and timid lips?
I can take it. You don’t know what I can take. The anger is recognizable and lashing out. I have a white and pink fleshy map to prove that I’m not “chill”. That I hear what you said about me, right outside of my door, that I feel it when you take your crunchy echo-y stomps into every corner of my space, that I know that every time you told me ‘don’t worry, I love you’ you were giving me (toxic for some, but not me) lies– I’m quiet not imaginary.
You may never hear my thoughts but you will hear my screams and growls.