ello, jello

She’s a wrestler. If I asked her to teach me, would I be able to deal with everything that might happen afterwards? She’d pin me down with her body, and I’d let her. She’s sharp where I’m soft, all lean limbs and calculated movements and stark shadows. I’m room temp butter. I can’t stop thinking about her hands, and how I so want her fingers to grip my hips. Her face is shaped like a heart and she didn’t wear any black lip makeup today. I just – I want to touch her. Want to feel my smaller hand in her’s. Want to sneak things into her pockets. Want to wrap my arms around her shoulders and feel her lips ghost down my neck. Touch me, touch me, touch me. I want to touch her, touch her, touch her. But I’m scared I’ll only feel this way for a second. What if, when she does finally touch me, it’s awful? What if I hate it? What if it isn’t right and she wants me too much? More than I can give? I’m scared.