Sometimes I think about what my friends would say if they knew the real me. The girl who smiles at their stupid parties and pretends to care about their drama. They’d be so fucking shocked. They see the uniform and the good grades and think that’s all there is. They don’t know about the bruises hidden under my sleeves, the marks he leaves when he forgets to be careful. They’d never understand how good it feels to be owned so completely. To have someone look at you with that mix of desire and shame, knowing they’re crossing every line just for you. I love being his dirty secret. I love that I’m the one who makes him feel like a bastard, who makes him lose his morals. It’s better than any love letter. It’s proof. (Mood: contemplative)