Bad Wrong Things

by C.P. Harris

Tell me what the last two thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine days four hours and,” he checked his watch, “twenty-one minutes have been like for you.

JFC. Rent audition part 2

“Those were fake. Rex filled your calendar with the names of dead rock stars. He knew you wouldn’t take the day off otherwise.”

Hahahaha

Yeah, you read that right. I love you, I’m not IN love with you. I never was, and it took me falling in love to see that. He’s a saint, Raven. He stayed no matter how many times I told him to go. Can’t wait for you to meet him.

Raven’s always right in the end apparently

He used to smell like nicotine, fire, and mint. Now he smelled like sun, moon, and stars, all things that were promised to return. He smelled like second chances.

None of those have smells

I no longer need your obsession, or your skin and bones, or to compromise myself in order to feel loved, be loved or to prove my love.”

Glad you spent 8 years off-page growing we never saw thanks

He worked the heavy machinery between his legs, dripping water over everywhere his body touched—which was everywhere.

What? Water? Everywhere which was everywhere?

He handled himself crudely, like his dick was a tool that couldn’t be broken. We’d see about that.

You want to break his dick?

The storm outside turned contagious, and before long, we were wielding our thrusts like they were swords, dragging hands over skin like they were claws, and eating each other alive. We were fucking thrumming with electricity. Just the way we liked it.

JFC

Three nights of making love in the eye of the storm at my bay window.

And the eye of the storm of your vortex tattoo that tapers at your ass

dragging a medicinal kiss over his bullet wounds. A souvenir from our time at war. “I relived that night every day for so long,” I’d said with strain. “Good came from it. Remember that. Hold on to it.” “I’ll never let it go,” I’d given my solemn oath, arching into his following affection. We had battle scars, some seen, others hidden in places only our love held directions to. Some wounds we’d inflicted on each other, and some had tagged along as baggage, a million tiny cuts given to us by our past

I mean I guess technically he was shot by a marine

My feelings for Clint were incoherent, and his for me a riot of hearts and flowers. If I had to give something up to have him, I’d surrender my spine and my spleen and my shins, rendering me crumbled and unable to move.

Incoherent is right

I blushed with fucking happiness, thinking back to a couple days ago and how this day had come to be. “We’re off for a whole week,” I’d said stretching, voice full of morning gravel.

I’m so tired of a full book of 80% of the interesting things happening between chapters

“This is what love should look like,” he whispered into my mouth. “This is what love should feel like,” I returned. “Home,” we said in unison. Love should feel like home…

BARF