Not That Kinda Girl

I didn't ask for her to waltz into my life, but when she did, the only thing I begged for was for her to stay. For her to wake up to the sight of my tender eyes, and the aching of her arm after gripping my bare waist all night.

She was never your conventional gentlewoman, either. No, she didn't call me beautiful every morning and whisper sweet nothings at night, but she strung my pieces together with the most fragile of touches, even if she was merely taping the edges when I needed anesthesia with a few stitches.

But it's okay. It is, because even if she doesn't tell me, I know. I know that she has a smile reserved for me, and only me. That her thick eyebrows furrowed in concentration through the day are the same ones that are sitting near the top of her tightly clenched eyes as she falls apart under me within the thin of my sheets. I know that I am hers, yet I also know that she isn't mine.

I know that the right hand she greets those with, have left more scars on my heart than she has on my back from scratching with undeniable fervor. The reoccurring despair and my own desperation leads to my climax, then to my demise.

I'm not usually the type of girl, though. I've grown up knowing my own self worth, but she's different. She's so destructive, so causing of emotional turmoil, but she's my favorite beautiful disaster. I've become her muse, but she no longer paints. She says she doesn't know how to hold the paint brush, but I told her to fingerpaint with any stroke she knew how.

Smear me with the colors you could never accept. Smother me with the love you could never vocalize.

So when she told me that she would try harder, I believed her. With every fiber in my being, every ounce of trust, self respect, and pride was on the line, because I gave myself to her in ways I've never given. I am irrevocably, wholeheartedly hers.

"Just one dance, that's all. I promise," were the whispers in the curve of my ear, her chapped lips releasing the warm oxygen she stole from mine.

We were so close, the delicacy of her fingertips tracing my jawline and my chest pressed against hers. Her heels being an inch or two shorter than mine made me the taller one. It was an innocent gesture, but the glint in her eye told me this was going to identical to the last time -- nothing innocent about it.

"That isn't what I want and you know it." The bitterness I try to excrete always ceases when the green of her eyes are consumed with the emotions she denies. My words coincide with the hurt I could no longer mask. "I don't want one dance with you-"

"Then what is it? You told me chivalrous, Camila." She always tells me this line, always when her efforts are more minuscule than my self respect.

"When will you understand, Lauren, that with you, I want a second dance. I want a third, a fourth and then for you to make me feel like it's our first all over again." I started, but it came out more like:

"Is the door locked?"

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This was my second ever one-shot, so please leave some feedback! Also, check out my previous one-shot called, "A Letter to You."

Thank you so much for actually reading this far, hopefully I'll have more up soon, and maybe longer in length? Let me know!