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Literature Text
As much as she doesn't mean to him he means to her.
Time shared with him is kissing, sex, and good impressions. There are hardly laughs or smiles towards the end, only forced conversation, undressing, and silence. Like the roaring waves of a tempest he pushes himself against her, into her and frightens her with his strength and his coldness.
She watches him with affection as his eyes glaze over her legs in public, thinking that he finds her beautiful. But she avoids eye contact, knows deep down that he's only picking out her imperfections, taking the time to find anything that dissatisfies him.
He seduces her with reused words, strategically placed acts of kindness that make it seem that he's interested in more than her with her panties off. She drowns in false flattery, the hope to please him, and the desperate attempt to melt his heart.
But it doesn't take long for his storm to fill her lungs and clog her heart.
As much as he doesn't mean to her she means to him.
Time shared with him is short-lived storms in bed, the clumsy aftermath and lack of creativity. In the beginning it took no effort to swallow him under the lolling waves of her softness, her lack of remedy. There are laughs shared, but when she sees the shore, spots the escape from his apathy she swims with vigor. Yet with one last pull of a heartstring he tethers her to his anger and distrust and she confesses.
Yes, she used him to pass through the tempest of the man who bruised her, left her drowning but she didn't mean to, God, she didn't mean to catch him in the rain and hurt him so, but it was the only way-
She cuts the rope at her first chance, frantically swims away in terror.
It takes him but a second to understand this as abandonment, and despite her plea for forgiveness his heart is filled with stones.
Time shared with him is kissing, sex, and good impressions. There are hardly laughs or smiles towards the end, only forced conversation, undressing, and silence. Like the roaring waves of a tempest he pushes himself against her, into her and frightens her with his strength and his coldness.
She watches him with affection as his eyes glaze over her legs in public, thinking that he finds her beautiful. But she avoids eye contact, knows deep down that he's only picking out her imperfections, taking the time to find anything that dissatisfies him.
He seduces her with reused words, strategically placed acts of kindness that make it seem that he's interested in more than her with her panties off. She drowns in false flattery, the hope to please him, and the desperate attempt to melt his heart.
But it doesn't take long for his storm to fill her lungs and clog her heart.
As much as he doesn't mean to her she means to him.
Time shared with him is short-lived storms in bed, the clumsy aftermath and lack of creativity. In the beginning it took no effort to swallow him under the lolling waves of her softness, her lack of remedy. There are laughs shared, but when she sees the shore, spots the escape from his apathy she swims with vigor. Yet with one last pull of a heartstring he tethers her to his anger and distrust and she confesses.
Yes, she used him to pass through the tempest of the man who bruised her, left her drowning but she didn't mean to, God, she didn't mean to catch him in the rain and hurt him so, but it was the only way-
She cuts the rope at her first chance, frantically swims away in terror.
It takes him but a second to understand this as abandonment, and despite her plea for forgiveness his heart is filled with stones.
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neither one deserves an entire vignette.
© 2012 - 2024 heart-terrors
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preety amazing story