Her Stalker
They look like they were sculpted in marble—tight, precise, and painted on.
"Fuck, Harley. You sure this is what you want to do?"
He pants as our mouths part, but only for long enough for both of us to rip off our shirts and toss them to the ground in a heap.
"As long as you've got a condom, Scotty." Fuck me, please, so I forget." I beg, unafraid of seeking solace, even if it means taking a risk. Everyone grieves in their own unique way, and this is how I am grieving.