My own keening pleas pull me from sleep.
Everything is warm at first. I'm so sweetly hot I feel pink all over. So sodden it feels natural, like I was born to be this deeply wet, and so soft I could melt. So soft a breath would split me. So soft it hurts.
It hurts so much.
That's when everything real crashes in.
Daylight. Cold air. Loneliness. Despair. Guilt. Hundreds of heart-pins. Every mile of space between us - all of it hollows my bones and mangles my veins as I remember why I woke up begging.
It was so real, the dream of Grim's piercing room. I could hear the grinding whisper of metal music and tattoo guns. I could smell green soap and witch hazel. No liquid black bled from anywhere. Everything was bright and clean and unwavering. I trusted it.
Then I looked up into the mirror and saw myself naked on his table.
With him fully dressed.
Poised between my legs.
Denim undone, holding ocean petals open with his dark hand, making himself come with his other.
Not inside. But all over where I blush deepest. Taunting me with shameless, arrogant strokes. Pleasing himself to no end. Parting pink tenderness with his thumb and soaking it in what I need most instead of feeding it to me like I'm pleading for him to.
Yearning only I can hear cries out in my ear drums while gnashing anguish tears through my bones.
I need him so bad it's happening.
Starting with my marrow, my body is eating itself from the inside out.
And all I can do is cry myself back to sleep.