I’m renting out the room to breathe for a great price. Time. Strung along for months, longing for an ending. Or a beginning. Whichever comes first. Which is typically her. She’s choking. I’m smiling. It smells like sweat. It looks like nothing. The lights are off. I’m traveling through touch and taste. Lust is a faulty compass. It leads me to the same place. It leads me to the same mistakes. She softens up. I harden. Before she can moan, my hand greets her mouth. The walls of her throat close. Moisture arrives to her eyes. She’s thinking out loud yet not making a sound. She only hears my words, “stop me.” She doesn’t. She never will. I’ll let her escape if she wants to. She’d rather suffocate.
