Rough Patches

"What are you doing?" He asks, reaching to grab my elbow, pushing me up against the cold, brick wall.

"Just stop it will you? You never know when to stop!" I scream, trying to get away from his touch. His smooth but strong hands on me.

"What are you talking about?" His face softens, while the grip on my elbows loosen. "Answer me?" Now he's a foot away from me, giving me space to breathe.

"Please." He pleads after a few seconds of silence.

"You know what Brooklyn, i'm fucking done with whatever was going on between us, or at least what i thought we had. And to add on to that, i'm fucking done with myself too." I scream.

He just stares, fucking stares. Burning a hole through my skull.

And the only thing i could do was stare back. Admiring him. He was truly beautiful. A piece of art they say. The dark eyes and the light hair styled into a messy quiff. His tattoos, visible from his white v-neck. Oh, and that smirk, which i wanted to kiss of him.

So I did.

For the last time. Ever.