I know.

She always cried after sex. I could never just leave. Every orgasm was emotional murder. The kind that left her a beautiful mess of angst and cum she’d then try to explain with disjointed words scrawled in moleskin journals. She’d retreat into dark corners of her mind and I’d wait for her. Tempting her with light. With barely-there kisses up and down her spine like drops of rain cleansing her of bad memories. At first I resented them- those ghosts that turned our love-making into gang bangs- but they were her ghosts, and so I loved them like I loved her. Completely. Consummately.

Beautiful words found in the most unsuspecting spaces. Like Tumblr erotica. Like my mustard and chocolate. Strangers you think you know and know you. Billy is dead. Like dead end alleys, crawling with mangy cats and broken dreams.
Who knew things would be as different. You ask, how are we doing today?
we are doing just grand. we just got we back. we back for good.
but wait, i'm curious-- who punishes you?