hungry hands.

We always turn back to the ones who hurt us, because at least then we’re sure that they can make us feel something. We always crawl back into the arms of the lover that destroyed us, so that we can just feel wanted once more in the aching and sweating and hungry hands of that monster you grew to love. In that acute moment right before orgasm, you realize where you are and who he is. And why it’s so fucking blissful to be there, with him. Because even if he hurt you, even if he burnt you beyond all recognition: even if now, you’re nothing more than a pile of ashes, at one point… you were everything. You were infinite.

And then the anger sets in. The bitterness, that edge in your voice. That scream in your mind that comes out as barely a whisper, as your fear sets in. As your blatant anger at being taken advantage of, of being used, of being hurt, sets in all over again. And that sleeping dragon in your stomach unfurls, and you realize you should run away, and never be with him again.

And then, you crawl back to his arms, for one more moment of satisfaction. For one more moment of being infinite.
And so, it continues.

Until one day, he'll realize that this is more than just fucking. More than just pain.
And when you go to crawl away, licking your wounds, one more time...
he'll hold you tighter. and you'll look at him, eyes wide, and you'll see,
"Stay."