Sometimes I worry. I look at her and I want to break her, break her before she breaks me. But when she looks at me, when her hand is between my legs, when her tongue is pressing against that special button, all I see in her is kindness. I think that scares me the most. But I know that I don't have to worry about her breaking me, not in the way I fear anyway, I have to worry about her putting me together, making me whole.
I want to hurt her so badly. Cut her with my words. See her tear up and know that I still hold all the power; that she is at my mercy. But I find that the words get stuck in my throat and die before I can untangle and spit them out.
Then she touches me. She throws away my shirt, or unbuttons my jeans and I know there's nothing I can do. She has me in a vice grip. That not only can I not escape, but I seem unwilling to. Her grip is the softest thing to ever touch me.
And I hate that she can stand it. I barely touch her. I kiss her to quiet the fire that burns in the pit of my stomach, to keep her name from leaving my lips in anything but a harsh demand. But my hands don't know the curves of her body as hers do mine. I don't know what she looks like shirtless. I don't know what would happen if I unbuttoned her jean shorts and stuck my hand inside them. How can she stand that, how can she stand the burn she feels, the fire I see burning behind her eyes, how can she stand it when she's touching me, when I'm not touching her? How can she stand it for all this time when I can barely function without her hands on me? I know she wants me. I can see it so clearly. I can only imagine I look at her that way. And yet, she never asks, she never tries, she just let's me use her and leave her.
And that's when I think, is there someone else? Does she run to someone else after she's done with me? Is there someone that undoes her the way she undoes me? I shouldn't care. I should be happy that it's not me, that it's not my job. But the thought of someone else touching her, of someone else being inside of her, of someone else tasting her, of someone else breaking her, it fills me with fire. A different kind of fire. A fire that isn't quenched with being touched, but with touching, no, with hurting someone else. My heart beats faster and all I see is red. I want to go in search of whoever makes Cat moan their name. It should be my name she says. It should be me she thinks about. Me who she whispers it to. Me who undoes her. Me.
Me. What has she done to me? Why do I care? It was just fucking. Just using her. But it was never really just that was it? From the very first time, she has undone me. She broke me. She took away all that I was and left me weak, trembling. Satisfied. Fulfilled. Whole.
I'm like a puzzle. I feel broken into various piece and yet whole. When she touches me, I'm scared. When she doesn't touch me I have that false sense of control. But then the withdrawals kick in and I'm scared that she won't touch me again. She has me twisted in her fingers, vulnerable, wanting and taking anything she'll give me. I can pretend all I want, that I'm demanding it from her, but she could so easily take it away. What would I be then? This? Jade? Somehow I think Jade without Cat wouldn't be Jade. She puts me together, assembles all the pieces, puts them in the right place. Completes the puzzle. For those seconds when my insides explode, I'm whole. Then she retrieves and I'm into separate pieces again. I'm Jade. I'm me. I'm mean words, hard glares, bad intentions. I'm more me than ever and yet I feel less myself than ever.