You Were A Forest Fire And I Couldn’t Run Away Fast Enough

man holding sparkler
Ihor Malytskyi / Unsplash

You told me once that I only ever came around when I needed something to write about and you were my muse. I’m starting to think that maybe you were right. Or maybe I had just realized that my scars were finally healing and your claws piercing into the thinnest parts of my skin was my favorite form of pain.

You loved drawing blood and you knew how much I loved the color red, even when it wasn’t the shade that was smeared across my swollen, bitten lips.

There was something so sadistic about us. We were the furthest thing from holy. You’d leave marks on my throat and wrists. A trail of bruises on the insides of my thighs where your mouth always seemed to linger. Banging headboards. Heads slamming into tiled walls in your shower. Wine glasses shattered from when you invaded me on the island in your kitchen. Torn-up backs and rug-burned knees.

Something about the pain was so addicting though. So sweet.

Or maybe that was just the honey dripping between my thighs that you’d savor like your last meal. Or the wine you’d pour over my chest and lick off of my skin like one single drop left behind would burn me.

Sticky, red, and sweet. That was your favorite way to have me.

In you I found an escape that no amount of running away could have ever given me. Curling up on your couch with a bottle of wine and Bon Iver playing in the background was my favorite form of therapy. Arching my back and moaning your name was my favorite form of prayer.

And your hands were always searching. Always looking for more. Constantly on a journey to find new ways to make me come undone. Like my body was an ocean and all you wanted was to drown in it. Once you tasted my ocean waves and felt the friction between us start to slip away, you’d bury yourself deeper inside of me, repeating my name like your mind had gone numb and every other word in your vocabulary ceased to exist. You’d only quiet when you’d start to seep out of me. Our rivers flowing into one another, uniting us in ways your whispered promises to me never could.

And the ending was always the same. I’d lay beside you, my cheek sticking to the layer of sweat that had formed on your chest while the smoke from your cigarette cloaked our naked bodies. My skin vibrating. Our chests rising and falling in synchronicity.

I’d lay there lost in another world. Dreaming up a storyline where this thing between us wasn’t toxic for both of us. Where your presence on my skin wouldn’t linger for days on end, haunting me on the nights I found myself alone under the moon and you in someone else’s bed.

I’d think about you when we weren’t together, more than I’m comfortable to admit. I’d think about your fingers in mine. Your mouth on my neck. Your body was a place I could never get sick of, like a place you often find yourself revisiting in a dream, yet each time you do it’s a little bit different than the time before. Your body was a place I don’t think I’d ever finish exploring. I wanted to explore your universes and settle into your rotations.

But we only ever seemed to be in tune when we were getting lost in one another, right after our naked limbs found themselves tangled up in each other.

Everything else was just monotone, background noise to break the silence.

But the rest of it was fire. And boy did we put forest fires to shame.

We’d paint the night in shades of orange and red. A blank canvas reserved for young lovers. Lost souls who would find their refuge in dark rooms and dirty sheets. My skin would warm and soften under your fingertips, electrifying every last cell in my body with your gentle graze. I’d promise I’d never go anywhere again if it meant not being by your side.

And the truth is I find myself breaking promises that I knew I’d never have a chance of keeping in the first place. Promises that claimed your name wouldn’t get tangled up in my words anymore. Promises that insisted my mind wouldn’t wander to your eyes when my fingertips found their way between my thighs.

I think of you when it’s late. When I’m settled into bed after completing a monotonous day of routines. I think about your voice and how I want to call you. I think about your eyes and how they burned holes through my skin. I think about how I’ve never felt as high as I did when you would burrow yourself inside of me.

And I know I shouldn’t reach out to you. You shouldn’t even be a thought in my mind. I should be running from these flames and not experimenting with how much heat I can handle before getting burned.

And I’m not going to call you. I’m not even going to text you. But the truth is I’m finding it almost impossible not to. The truth is I’m thinking about your red couch, screwdrivers in the ritz, your skin on mine, sipping wine in the bathtub together, building a tent fort like we were little kids again and laying in it naked for hours, chain smoking cigarettes and getting lost in each other.

But mostly I’m thinking about my name escaping your lips and how I’d give almost anything in the world to hear those three syllables roll off your tongue once more.

Your flames were devouring and I should have known better than to toy with your danger.

The truth is I couldn’t run fast enough.

The truth is I never wanted to run.

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