December.

Gasping.

Grasping.

Those sheets pressed between my white knuckles.
They don’t breathe. I can’t breathe. You won’t breathe.

You can still see the imprints of my scratches. Hours later. Days. Weeks even.

Primal sounds unrecognizable to even me. It reverberates in this darkness. I feel it in the air. I am left stunned. I don’t take the time to try and comprehend it.

My face flushes with just the thought of it. Of you.

12 hours later.
And there it is. conflicted.

Those sheets remember.