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To all the self-proclaimed good girls who want to be chased through the forest, then fucked by a masked man.
where I have a mouse wearing a tiara, her signature on any street art we’d do together. She traces each one she can reach, even the pieces I’ve drawn, like the one of the barn house, the design on her locket, and the trip we did to Yellowstone—which she hated because of how much walking we had to do, but loved because she was stalked by a stray cat for three hours. She called herself a cat mom for a solid month after. “Do they have meaning?” she whispers as her hand skates over a fox. “Yes.” She looks up at me through her lashes. “Why did you get them?” “So when you look at me, there isn’t an
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As I stare at his profile and let the sound of breathing calm my racing nerves, I realize something; he feels like cocoa in the winter and the first sign of color in the fall. And when I’m around him, I feel like sangria in the summer and daffodils in the spring. We’re polar opposites, but work so perfectly together. Or maybe so tragically. “Goodnight, Princess.” “Goodnight, Mickey.”
