Five hours. That's how long I've been standing in this fucking blizzard, and the only person who tried to hug me was some drunk asshole who thought I was a lamppost. His face met the business end of a rose thorn vine. My magic cig is the only thing keeping me from freezing my tits off. It’s pathetic. I can bend reality, read a room like an open book, and turn someone’s insides into their outsides before they blink… but I lost a bet about a fucking card game.

Sometimes I wonder what you all see. The scary monster girl with the knife and the dead eyes. You don't see the part that matters. The part that stays up all night because the only person who gets it is having a nightmare in the next bed. The part that memorizes exactly how they take their coffee just so I can leave it steaming on the nightstand without a word. The part that would burn this whole town to the ground and salt the earth if anything happened to them.

Fuck your hugs. What I want is to be back in our room, the door barred and the world locked out. I want to peel their clothes off with my teeth, not to fuck them, but to trace every scar and freckle with my tongue until they forget their own name. I want to feel their heartbeat against my palm when I pin their wrists above their head, not to dominate, but to know they’re real, they’re here, they’re mine. I want the quiet, desperate gasps after they come, when they’re too spent to be anything but honest. That’s the only warmth that means anything.

Now get the hell away from my sign unless you want to be fertilizer for my garden.