From Hell to Breakfast

It's your touch that probably blinded me. This seemed like a good idea at the time. I can't say no to your fingertips and the way they dance over my skin. I can't say stop to the velvet touch of your tongue probing the edge of my lips. You jangle my nerves like keys on a loose chain. Like keys to my cell. I can't tell who's right and who's wrong. I can't tell where your skin stops and mine begins.

I was in the bathroom coughing up something vile into the shower drain as you made yourself a comfortable home in my sheets. When I came back you were stretched like a cat in the dusty sunlight pouring in the window. My stomach was turning, boiling up bile and my morning dose of discomfort. I was twisting my hair around my hand trying to stop from doubling over. You didn't notice. Didn't notice me on the edge of the bed rocking back and forth and trying to make the pain stop. You didn't say a word but turned towards the wall with a sigh and your eyes closed shut.

Someone should have probably got up and left but where did we have to go?