yearn
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I bite in,raw, with fervour,it dribbles off my lips and through my fingers.I am unquenchable, insatiable, panting, my hunger, thirst, ripe as a summer’s peach,but it’s a summer’s love that begs to me,sticky on my skin, nestled in my neck. I want a love pure as a newbornand sinful as the dead.My teeth on yours,unable to quell desire.
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One day you’re 10, and you’re waking up to the wet wilderness, putting on your dirt streaked flip flops to pick wild raspberries for morning pancakes. The foam soles bend around the gravel road, and you can feel every single pebble like the princess and the pea except you’re the king, the king of this
Lashanda Forsberg 