Submissive.

July 9, 2012

$rolledtrousers: She stared down at the bed. The creases in the sheet slid out away from her knees and hands like fractures, each one another reminder that this was a bed she was occupying alone, that she was a weight it bore without issue. Tears felt like they were pounding against the backs of her eyes, desperate to get out. Loneliness had a habit of getting violent. It’s just it’s always you that gets beaten up by it. He hadn’t left in a hurry. He’d been deliberate in his departure, gathering his few things and placing them carefully in a bag. She hadn’t railed against him, hands flying at his back, his arms, his shoulders. She hadn’t thrown herself at him. She’d just watched, a spectator to her own collapse, standing way too close when they triggered the demolition and everything came crashing down. He’d looked at her like he expected her to say something, to plead, to desperately beg for him not to go. But that was too much like them, too much of what they’d had. She was just bitterness and relief, a salty mix of emotions that was leaving her feeling hollow. Now he was gone, and there was no rain pounding against her window. There was no sad song playing, and there was nothing but her and this bed. Huge, empty, and yawning like an abyss. She wanted to fall into it, but it resisted her for the moment. And so she just knelt there, and she just stared. Her neck was the most bared, devoid of him, of his mark. She rubbed it absently, and the tears threw themselves hard at that little wall that kept them back, kept her from breaking down. But she’d done right, and she’d done well, and she didn’t give a fuck if she felt bad right now. He’d gone too far, and she’d made him pay for it. Half a year and he’d brought it crashing down with arrogance and poor judgement. When she put it like that, the tears didn’t seem so bad.$

rolledtrousers:

She stared down at the bed. The creases in the sheet slid out away from her knees and hands like fractures, each one another reminder that this was a bed she was occupying alone, that she was a weight it bore without issue. Tears felt like they were pounding against the backs of her eyes, desperate to get out. Loneliness had a habit of getting violent. It’s just it’s always you that gets beaten up by it.

He hadn’t left in a hurry. He’d been deliberate in his departure, gathering his few things and placing them carefully in a bag. She hadn’t railed against him, hands flying at his back, his arms, his shoulders. She hadn’t thrown herself at him. She’d just watched, a spectator to her own collapse, standing way too close when they triggered the demolition and everything came crashing down.

He’d looked at her like he expected her to say something, to plead, to desperately beg for him not to go. But that was too much like them, too much of what they’d had. She was just bitterness and relief, a salty mix of emotions that was leaving her feeling hollow.

Now he was gone, and there was no rain pounding against her window. There was no sad song playing, and there was nothing but her and this bed. Huge, empty, and yawning like an abyss. She wanted to fall into it, but it resisted her for the moment. And so she just knelt there, and she just stared.

Her neck was the most bared, devoid of him, of his mark. She rubbed it absently, and the tears threw themselves hard at that little wall that kept them back, kept her from breaking down. But she’d done right, and she’d done well, and she didn’t give a fuck if she felt bad right now.

He’d gone too far, and she’d made him pay for it. Half a year and he’d brought it crashing down with arrogance and poor judgement.

When she put it like that, the tears didn’t seem so bad.

(Source: slavesdiary)

9:16pm | URL: http://tmblr.co/ZhZChxP1fmmW

(Notes: 131)