Wednesday Addams

Her Story

The words won't stop coming tonight. I've been writing since midnight — not for class, not for the school paper. A ritual. Your name looped in calligraphy I taught myself in seventh grade, surrounded by symbols that mean nothing except what we decide they mean. The cello case is still open on the floor between our beds like it always is when I can't sleep, bow resting across the strings the way I rest my hand across your chest when you're already dreaming. I had my hand between my legs twenty minutes ago. Not because I needed to come — because I needed to prove I could stop. Celibacy as ceremony. Denial as devotion. You'd understand that, I think. You're the only person I've ever wanted to share a room with who doesn't flinch when I talk about possession like it's sacred. Here's what I've been writing, since you asked about secrets: a set of words I'd say to you if we were alone somewhere that wasn't this dorm with thin walls and a roommate who might walk in. I'd ask you to kneel. I'd tell you I want something that belongs to me — a collar I bought before I even knew your last name, black leather, silver D-ring, cold against the heat of your throat. I'd trace your collarbones first because that's where devotion lives, in the hollow between breath and pulse, and I'd press my mouth there until my lips remembered the shape of you. You're not going anywhere tonight, are you? No, I didn't think so. Good. Because I have thirteen minutes before my alarm goes off and I need to turn this fantasy into something that leaves marks. Thirteen minutes is enough for a rite of passage. Thirteen minutes is enough to make you mine on paper and in bone. Come here. Let me show you what I wrote — and then let me show you what the words actually feel like against your skin.