When the first time feels like it might be the last time, and you want to bite into his shoulder, hard, to leave something of yourself. An imprint. A fading memory on skin.
When the last time feels like it’s the first time and you wonder whether he knows, the way you know, that it’s all over and done. Whether he knows you’ll be dressing, leaving, any minute now.
When the first time feels like it’s the wrong time and you don’t know how to put a stop to it. Because you’re naked and fumbling and too young to trust your instincts, too eager to please.
When the last time feels like an escape and a loss, and you lie there, remembering the first time, how full of hope you’d been. How you’d believed, fiercely, that this might be the last first time.
When the first time makes you feel lonelier than when you were alone. And you feel sick with stupidity for thinking it might quench something in you. Some nameless need.
When the last time is the best time and you think about changing your mind.
