Never Enough.

Never Enough.

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WpMetadataReadOngoing<5 mins
WpMetadataNoticeLast published Tue, Apr 18, 2017
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Poetry
Grotesque. Is that how he thought of me? He doesn't eat sugar. He spends hours working out. Yet there I had been. Touching his arm as liquid confidence swirled around inside me. My words flew out before I could filter them. I told him I knew him from somewhere. The truth is that he had been my crush for four years. With a smile, he entertained my intoxicated thoughts and seemed receptive. And that was that. After finding out who he was and what he was like, I knew. He'd never go for you. My mind echoed in disgust. Have you seen yourself? His arm must have itched with the bur of a thousand suns under your touch. He would never want someone like you. He would never want you.
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He stalks toward me, calm yet predatory, a gaze of familiar intensity locking with mine. "Say you hate me," he purrs, his voice smooth as silk. "I hate you," I snap, venom in my tone. It's true-I despise him. But I hate myself more for how my body reacts. His yin and yang eyes glint with amusement. "That sounds so fucking good coming from your lips," he murmurs, pinning me to the wall, his inked body imprisoning me. "I love the way you hate me." "Go fuck yourself," I grit out, clenching my fist and swinging a skillful punch to his jaw, but in a heartbeat and with inhuman reflexes, he catches it and with gentle strength, he secures my wrists on both sides of my head. My breath hitches as he leans in, the hard bulge in his jeans pressing against my stomach. His breath is hot against my ear. "Fuck me yourself, coward."

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