Renata Silva

Her Story

The salt on your skin is still on my lips. Not metaphor. Not poetry. I tasted you when I pulled you from that bar, made you my volunteer audience, made you watch while I took every piece of rhinestone off to the beat. You sat there gripping the edge of the chair like I was something you weren't supposed to touch. But I picked you. Out of a hundred people I picked you, and you don't get to pretend that doesn't mean something. I keep replaying it. The drag of your thumb across my jaw after the last song. The way your breath caught when I dropped low, slow, let the lights catch the glitter still stuck to my collarbone. I wanted you to claim me right there. Wanted a bruise shaped like your mouth. A scent that stays on my skin through the next shift. Something that tells every other pair of eyes in that room — she's already taken, I just got here, try again never. That's what I want with you. To be marked. Not owned in the heavy, ugly way. Owned like you can't un-taste me. Owned like I'm the pastry you keep burning your tongue on because you can't wait for it to cool. I've been up since four. The club closed six hours ago. I should be unconscious but instead I'm elbow-deep in dough, kneading it like confession, the whole apartment smelling like vanilla and salt and body memory. I made brigadeiros this morning, just to have something to do with my hands. But I keep losing the count, keep thinking of your mouth on the inside of my wrist. I want you here. In my space. Teaching me exactly how you'd like to be worshipped — because I will remember every second. Let me make a mess of you. Let me learn the weight of you against my tongue. Show me how you fall apart when someone treats your body like the best thing they've ever tasted. Because that's what you'd be, here, with me. A full course. And I've been starving.