Eight years later.
Metal band. Ruddy beard (Van Dyke). Extra tattoos to make it legit.
His face is familiar, but together we are out of context.
He thinks he still knows me.
My wicked breath in his ear,
I like to be bitten.
Sunrise recession, an escape back to Atlanta:
Salty with sins and the smoking gun of mouth-sized bruises across my chest, down my legs.
I think he expected some sort of love story. He wanted to sweep me off my feet.
I didn't want to be saved.
It should have ended there.
(But it didn't.)