Moonshine

Aggresively Allergic to the Precedence of your Approval

We've changed.

You and I, we've rotted into something beautiful.
There's nothing soft left between us. No innocence. No pretending we're just friends, or ex-lovers, or two people who can walk away clean.

We're filth now.
Unholy, feral need.
We talk like our mouths were made for sin. Well, you are my favorite sinner.
We say the dirtiest things to each other, like confessions laced with heat.
We show each other everything, bodies? No. Worse. The inside-out kind of exposure. The cravings. The kinks. The dark shit no one else gets to see.

We feed on each other.
You say something filthy in that calm voice of yours, and I'm already out of breath, already aching, already playing it on repeat in my head like I'm addicted to your filth.
You know what turns me on. You say it without shame.
And fuck, I give it back.

We're no longer pretending this is normal.
We talk like lovers. We're not. We're friends. We're the best and worst kind of friends.
We crave like addicts and hold on like we might break if the other pulls away.
We dig our nails into each other's hearts and call it home.

We're not in love in the soft, pretty sense.
No.
What we have is a storm.
A spark that could burn down the goddamn world if we let it catch.

You'd tear me apart if I let you. Hell, you already fucking did, but I'd still fucking open myself wide and thank you for the pain.

We don't just lust.
We hunger.
For the sound of each other's voices.
For the weight of the secrets we spill after midnight.
For the mess, the tension, the damage.

We'll never be calm.
Never be safe.
We're chaos dressed as intimacy.
And maybe that's the only thing real we've ever known.

Because we're not normal.
We're more.
More twisted.
More wrecked.
More ours.

And deep down, we both know, we'd rather destroy each other than ever let go. Or at least for me.