Notwavingdrowningthis is the time where it'd be appropriate to issue you a warning.
where it'd be wise to tell you about the dangerous curves ahead, slippery with ice and sweat, slick with catastrophe just waiting to happen. you see, i am no genteel lover. i do not usher in honeyed words and press lily-lips against the tender slope of your neck. i do not hold your hand and lead you through rose gardens, whisper poetry in murmured tones. i simply cannot be slow and timid, doe-eyes and flushed cheeks, fluttering bird-hands floating through the fog-atmosphere until we hit the bed of satin and lace.
don't expect it of me.
instead, wait for racers to start their engines. wait to hear the engines growl and spitting under the hood, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, nails biting sharply into your shoulder-blades as tires peel out. expect for the ground to drop from underneath you and cotton to be ripped in two, poetry being hissed between swollen mouths. expect for it to be saltwater-promises agains