as quiet as a fire

١٥

her moans were music to my ears. me being the instrument that brought them to life made butterflies swim around my guts – both the good and bad kind.
the good,
because i knew that in that moment, i could call her mine. she held me captive in between her thighs, and pulled on my hair to get me up and taste herself once again. i knew i could make her feel good; better than anyone else ever could. and she loved it. i liked the thought of that. i liked thinking she wanted me as much as i wanted her. it fed my ego well. she'd melt between my fingertips in seconds, and the way her nails carved into my back indicated she wanted more.
here comes the bad part,
she wanted more. something deeper than what we'd share every night. and that scared me. i knew who and what i was; i've grown way too familiar with everything that involved touches and bruises and bites that i forgot what anything tenderer felt like. i wasn't ready to hold her heart in my hands, for they have turned so cold it might slip away easily and break. i was scared – better say i didn't know how – to offer her anything other than orgasms and hickeys all over her silky skin, for whatever it was that my glass heart was willing to give hers, might bruise her a lot more than my teeth and fingers ever did.

i was never one to feel,
maybe if i admit i love her, i can heal.